Juniata  Memories 

Legends  Collected  in 
Central  Pennsylvania 

HENRY  W.  SHOEMAKER 

President  of  the  Altoona  Tribune 


"It  is  not  likely  that  much,  if  indeed  any  part,  of 
what  I  may  write  will  be  granted  a  permanent  place 
in  the  literature  of  my  country,  nor  am  I  stirred  to 
effort  by  any  ambition  or  dream  that  it  may.  I 
shall  be  well  satisfied  if,  by  what  I  write,  some  pres- 
ent entertainment  be  afforded  to  the  reader,  a. love 
of  nature  inculcated,  and  encouragement  given  to  a 
more  manly  or  womanly  life." — W.  H.  H.  Murray. 


ILLUSTRATED 


PUBLISHED  BY 

JOHN  JOSEPH  McVEY 

PHILADELPHIA,  PA. 


Copyright,   1916 

JOHN  JOSEPH  McVEY 

All  Rights  Reserved 


To  M.  R.  S. 

THROUGH    WHOM   THE 

WRITER   FOUND   HIMSELF,   THESE   PAGES 

ARE   AFFECTIONATELY 

DEDICATED. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Foreword    ix 

Explanatory  Preface xi 

I.     Old  Dan   1 

II.     The  Rede   15 

III.  The  Snow  Image   30 

IV.  The  Shadow  Man 45 

V.     The  Wolf  Tribe 62 

VI.     Candlemas 78 

VII.     The  Warlock 91 

VIII.     Shaney  John    1 06 

IX.     The  Hart's  Horn   121 

X.     Nita-Nee   1 36 

XI.     The  Original 151 

XII.     Lost  Creek  Valley 1 66 

XIII.  The  Old  Tree 1 86 

XIV.  The  Girl  and  the  Panther 201 

XV.     The  Standing  Stone 217 

XVI.     Warrior's  Ridge 232 

XVII.     Warrior's  Mark 247 

XVIII.     Wild  Ducks   260 

XIX.     A  Story  of  Black  Jack 273 

XX.     Tom  Fausett 286 

XXI.     Aaron  Hall 307 

XXII.     Hallowe'en 324 

XXIII.  All  Souls'  Night 338 

XXIV.  Merithew 353 

XXV.     Green  Gap  365 

XXVI.     The  Rob  Roy 377 

V 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Lewistown  Narrows — ^A  Bird's-Eye  View.  .Frontispiece 

Arch  Spring    Facing  page  22 

Summer  Shadows "         "     52 

A  Quiet  Evening  on  the  Juniata.  ..."         "72 
Near  the  Site  of  Skaney  John's  Cabin     "         "112 

The  Great  Terrace "         "  208 

The  Distant  Ridge "         "  252 

The  Forest  Road  Across  Jack's  Moun-  • 

tain   "         "  278 

At  the  Site  of  an  Old-Time  Furnace  .     "         "  330 
Golden  Hour  at  Old  McVeytown  ....     "         "  384 


VII 


FOREWORD. 

WHETHER  one  cares  for  stories  of  war  or  the 
chase,  of  Indians  or  EngHsh,  of  reHgion  or  of 
love,  he  will  find  his  own  in  Mr.  Shoemaker's 
eight  volumes  about  Central  Pennsylvania.  My  own 
life-study  has  been  religion,  and  it  was  because  I  saw 
the  value  for  that  study  in  these  tales  that  I  noticed 
them,  in  1914,  in  The  Pennsylvania  Magazine.  One 
of  our  modern  religious  problems  is:  How  is  the  mind 
of  man  constructed?  How  does  it  work?  Are  our 
minds  the  same  as  those  of  the  prophets  and  evangel- 
ists? For  this  reason  the  study  of  folklore  has  be- 
come an  important  branch  of  the  science  of  religion. 
In  folklore  we  see  the  mind  of  Abraham  Lin- 
coln's "plain  people"  at  work.  From  these  workings 
we  can  often  get  glimpses  into  the  mind  of  primitive 
man. 

Every  locality,  therefore,  should  collect  its  folk- 
tales, and  Mr.  Shoemaker  has  done  yeoman  service  to 
science  by  his  collection.  Moreover,  there  is  a  charm 
and  a  life  in  the  teller's  way  of  telling  that  gives  a  zest 
to  the  reader.  One  can  smell  the  pines  and  breathe 
the  mountain  air.  Wizards  and  warlocks  abound,  as 
if  no  railroad  and  no  telephone  could  banish  them; 
ghosts,  too,  haunt  us  on  every  hand;  while,  as  I  said 
before,  the  girls  of  the  legends  are  so  pure  and 
sweet  that  many  a  city  youth  will  want  to  take  the 

ix 


FOREWORD 


Lew^stown  Express  to  see  if  any  more  of  them  re- 
main. 

Albert  J.  Edmunds, 

Historical  Societ})  of  Pennsylvania. 

July,  1916. 


EXPLANATORY  PREFACE. 

IN  the  summer  of  1910,  in  the  columns  of  the  New- 
ton Hamilton  Herald  these  words  were  written  by 
a  correspondent:  "There  is  one  hope  I  have  which  I 
wish  to  give  expression  to.  This  beautiful  Juniata 
Valley  is  rich  in  history  and  traditions.  I  should  like 
to  inspire  some  boy  or  girl  to  give  this  folklore  to  the 
world  for  the  world's  good.  It  will  not  be  an  easy 
task,  but  will  require  much  digging  and  delving  as  it 
does  to  bring  mineral  wealth  to  the  surface,  and  it  will 
even  more  greatly  enrich  mankind." 

At  that  time  the  correspondent  had  not  heard  of  the 
compiler  of  the  present  volume,  or  the  work  he  was 
trying  to  do.  It  was  a  year  later  that  the  writer  of 
these  pages  began  the  task  of  collecting  the  legends  and 
folklore  of  the  Juniata  Valley,  and  in  the  valleys  trib- 
utary to  it,  such  of  it  as  survived  into  a  materialistic 
age,  or  would  be  imparted  by  the  holders  of  the  secret 
treasure-chest. 

It  was  not  to  be  a  final  work,  but  merely  to  "blaze 
the  trail"  for  others.  Probably  sixty  legends  were 
collected  during  the  years  1911,  1912  and  1913.  The 
first  twenty-five  or  thirty  came  from  the  northerly  limits 
of  the  region,  in  the  Seven  Mountains.  The  second 
half  were  unearthed  in  the  Juniata  Valley  proper,  or 
in  the  little  valleys  contiguous  to  it. 

The   first   collection   was   compiled  in   book   form, 


xii  EXPLANATORY    PREFACE 

under  the  title  of  "In  the  Seven  Mountains,"  and  se- 
cured a  respectful  hearing  from  the  good  people  of 
the  Juniata  country  from  Altoona  to  Juniata  Bridge. 
It  was  the  first  real  encouragement  that  had  come  to  the 
writer  after  ten  years  of  effort  to  collect  and  publish 
the  folklore  of  the  Central  Pennsylvania  mountains. 
It  was  his  sixth  volume;  he  might  have  soon  felt  sensa- 
tions of  discouragement  had  it  not  been  for  the  gen- 
erosity of  the  dwellers  by  the  "Blue  Juniata." 

The  volume  of  legends  pertaining  to  the  southerly 
Juniata  Valleys  and  the  writer's  eighth  volume  of 
Pennsylvania  folklore  is  the  one  now  being  presented 
to  the  public — JuNlATA  MEMORIES.  Most  of  the 
materials  were  gathered,  as  stated  above,  in  191  1- 
1913,  but  several  driving  trips  through  the  romantic  ter- 
ritory, this  "Eldorado  Found,"  were  taken  in  1914 
and  1915  to  confirm  certain  details  and  local  color. 

The  legends  were  secured  from  old  people,  hermits, 
farmers,  lumbermen,  teamsters,  hostlers,  hunters,  trap- 
pers, old  soldiers,  and  their  ladies.  They  were  freely 
given,  many  with  the  knowledge  that  some  day  they 
might  find  their  way  into  print,  some  with  no  idea  as 
to  their  future,  told  for  the  sheer  joy  of  their  relation. 
Many  of  them  deal  with  persons  of  prominence  in  the 
political  or  social  history  of  Central  Pennsylvania, 
others  with  individuals  of  whom  documentary  history 
contains  no  trace — they  of  the  "forgotten  mil- 
lions." They  treat  of  Indian  days  principally,  with  a 
goodly  sprinkling  of  the  supernatural,  of  hunting,  lum- 
bering and  pioneering.     Perhaps  they  are  not  repre- 


EXPLANATORY    PREFACE  xiii 

sentative  legends  of  the  Juniata  Valley,  better  ones 
might  have  been  found.  The  historian  of  the  Juniata 
country,  U.  J,  Jones,  hinted  of  many  such  which  the 
present  writer  could  find  no  trace  of.  Those  who  knew 
them  most  probably  died,  failing  to  pass  them  on,  long 
before  the  compiler  of  these  chapters  came  on  the 
scene. 

But  not  finding  any  better  legends,  he  has  written  out 
the  twenty-six  herein  presented,  which  seemed  to  pos- 
sess the  most  human  interest,  or  as  many  as  would  fill 
a  volume  of  this  size.  He  has  endeavored  to  reproduce 
them  exactly  as  he  heard  them  from  the  lips  of  the 
old  people.  They  have  not  been  enlarged  on  or 
changed,  even  when  they  ended  abruptly  or  in  mystery, 
but  he  fears  that  they  have  all  lost  much  in  passing 
through  his  hands. 

There  is  an  indefinable  charm  or  thrill  when  hear- 
ing a  tale  of  the  long  ago  from  an  aged  person,  who 
knew  the  actors  in  it  intimately,  or  whose  family  did, 
especially  when  it  is  recounted  in  an  old  farmhouse  or 
mountain  tavern  on  a  blowy  autumn  night,  before  an 
open  fire  or  even  a  glowing  stove.  As  there  is  a 
place  for  all  legends,  there  is  also  a  time  for  hearing 
them. 

The  writer  has  visited  practically  every  spot  where 
the  scenes  in  these  legends  are  laid,  he  knows  "the  lay 
of  the  land."  He  could  see  the  actors  moving  before 
him  in  his  "mind's  eye."  As  far  as  possible,  he  has 
tried  to  verify  every  date  and  incident,  and  to  do  so 
has  absorbed  a  vast  amount  of  Pennsylvania  history 


xiv  EXPLANATORY    PREFACE 

and  literature.  Some  of  the  stories  fit  the  page  of  his- 
tory exactly,  they  must  be  absolutely  true,  others  have 
no  connection  with  anything  recorded,  they  must  repre- 
sent the  garbled  memory  of  some  one's  animus  or  the 
mental  vagaries  of  some  tottering  sage.  Some  of  them 
would  seem  to  clear  up  mooted  points  in  history,  others 
to  further  confuse  it,  but  all  are  a  picture  of  a  phase  of 
life  that  is  no  more — the  simple,  imaginative,  bold,  free 
life  of  the  frontier. 

As  stated  previously,  many  of  the  characters  are  the 
ancestors  of  persons  now  promment  in  the  Juniata 
Valley  or  elsewhere.  To  avoid  giving  offense  to  these, 
as  some  of  the  ancient  figures  were  most  unjust  to  the 
redmen,  and  believed  too  much  in  ghosts,  or  that  might 
was  right,  the  compiler  has  reserved  the  privilege,  as  in 
his  previous  volumes,  to  occasionally  change  the  names 
of  persons,  places  and  dates.  But  this  has  been  done 
only  when  it  seemed  best,  and  always  with  deep  regret. 
But  if  the  legend  occurred  on  the  north  side  of  a  cer- 
tain mountain,  and  not  on  the  south  slope,  as  stated  in 
this  book,  it  only  matters  a  few  miles,  and  what  is  that 
in  the  boundless  space  and  endless  time  which  make 
up  this  world?  But  it  is  a  drawback  to  the  exactitude 
of  such  a  work. 

There  are  countless  legends  still  to  be  unearthed  in 
Central  Pennsylvania,  especially  in  the  valleys  tribu- 
tary to  the  Juniata.  Some  are  mere  fragments,  just  a 
word  or  two,  others  long  enough  to  fill  a  volume,  or 
be  turned  into  historical  novels.  But  all  are  worthy  of 
being  written  down,  saved  from  oblivion,  before  it  is 


EXPLANATORY    PREFACE  xv 

too  late.    Any  one  can  find  them,  it  requires  no  special 
gift,  friendliness  and  simplicity,  that  is  all. 

They  show  the  old  pioneers  in  a  favorable  light  for 
the  moGt  part,  as  possessing  a  decided  spiritual  side  to 
their  natures,  far  and  above  their  abilities  as  mere  hunt- 
ers, trappers  or  wood-choppers.  And  in  conclusion, 
first,  and  most  of  all,  the  old  people  are  to  be  thanked 
for  their  kindness  and  patience  in  recounting  the  leg- 
ends, their  unvarying  courtesy,  that  old-time  charm 
that  we  must  not  let  fade  away.  Then  the  press  of 
the  Juniata  Valley,  including  the  Newton  Hamilton 
Herald  prophet  of  this  effort  to  collect  these  "mem- 
ories," must  be  thanked,  for  they  have  been  uniformly 
good  to  a  writer  in  a  new  field.  And  the  reading  pub- 
lic are  to  be  thanked,  they  have  grasped  at  something 
they  knew  not  what,  and  some  of  them  found  it  to 
their  liking.  And  lastly,  but  not  least,  to  the  great 
Pennsylvania  Railroad,  and  its  official  photographer, 
Mr.  W.  H.  Rau,  of  Philadelphia,  who  kindly  granted 
the  permission  to  reproduce  the  illustrations  used  in 
this  book,  go  the  author's  sincere  and  lasting  appreci- 
ation. 

Henry  W.  Shoemaker, 

Member  of  American  Folklore  Societ}). 

April  29,  1916. 


JUNIATA  MEMORIES. 

I. 

OLD  DAN. 

A  WAR  STORY  FROM  THE  SHORT  MOUNTAIN. 

SOME  years  ago  the  Semi-Weekly  Nervs  of  Hunt- 
ingdon published  a  very  interesting  account  of  a 
famous  stag  called  "Old  Dan,"  which  ruled  the 
wilds  of  Huntingdon  County  between  the  years  1885 
to  1895.  This  magnificent  "forest  king"  was  named, 
so  the  widely  read  article  stated,  for  an  old  German 
hermit,  who  lived  in  a  secluded  cabin  on  Short  Moun- 
tain, and  who  was  as  hard  to  meet  as  the  famous  stag. 

Old  Dan,  the  hermit,  was  indeed  a  very  difficult  man 
to  converse  with.  This  was  partly  because  he  pro- 
fessed to  know  very  little  of  the  English  language,  and 
partly  because  he  seemed  to  prefer  a  life  of  silence. 
Taciturn  almost  to  the  point  of  inhospitality,  very  few 
hunters  or  fishermen  cared  to  seek  accommodations  in 
his  forest-hidden  shack. 

Those  who  sought  to  remain  with  him  never  tried  it 
a  second  time,  he  was  so  ungracious  in  all  his  acts.  But 
those  who  spoke  to  him,  and  who  were  persons  of  dis- 
cernment, could  readily  note  that  under  his  uncouth, 
unshaven  exterior  he  was  a  man  of  breeding  and  educa- 
tion— he  had  that  mysterious  atmosphere  about  him 
that  proclaims  a  gentleman. 

1 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES 


It  was  not  until  the  last  year  of  his  life,  when  some 
premonition  must  have  come  to  him  of  his  approaching 
end,  that  he  became  to  any  extent  communicative.  He 
went  out  of  his  way  to  wave  to  the  hunters  as  with  their 
dogs  they  went  along  the  trail  by  the  creek  bottom,  he 
acted  as  if  he  wanted  them  to  stop  and  talk.  One  of 
the  hunters,  the  celebrated  William  Pursley,  who  had 
been  snubbed  by  the  recluse  annually  for  twenty  years, 
seeing  the  change  in  the  old  man's  demeanor,  left  his 
companions  one  evening,  determined  to  find  out  if  "Old 
Dan"  had  a  message  to  give  to  the  world. 

After  a  preliminary  conversation,  the  hermit  begged 
the  hunter  to  remain  over  night,  that  he  had  much  to 
say,  it  could  not  all  be  told  in  a  night's  time,  but  he 
would  try.  It  was  supper  time,  and  after  the  brief  re- 
past, the  two  drew  up  their  chairs  around  the  slim 
cylinder  stove,  for  it  was  in  the  fall  of  the  year,  deer 
season.  The  hermit  prefaced  the  talk  by  saying  that 
he  would  not  be  long  in  this  world,  that  he  had  seen  the 
token  that  had  killed  his  career  in  Europe,  and  sent  him 
into  the  wilds  a  wretched  exile,  and  could  now  have  no 
other  change  in  store  for  him  but  death. 

Pursley  noticed,  but  said  nothing,  that  "Old  Dan" 
was  talking  away  in  good  English,  without  the  de- 
cided accent  so  characteristic  of  him  in  the  past.  The 
token  which  foretold  death  would  unseal  his  lips,  and 
he  begged  of  the  hunter  to  deliver  a  packet  of  letters 
and  papers  to  his  relatives  in  Germany,  whenever  he 
should  hear  of  his  death.  Then  he  got  up,  and  opened 
a  placard  in  the  wall,  back  of  the  stove,  taking  out  a 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES 


bundle  of  envelopes  and  papers,  tied  in  crumbling  red 
tape.  On  the  end  of  the  uppermost  envelope  was  writ- 
ten with  faded  ink  a  long  and  complicated  foreign 
address.  Pursley  slipped  the  bundle  into  the  inside 
pocket  of  his  heavy  hunting  coat,  propped  back  his 
chair,  prepared  to  hear  more  from  the  eccentric  old 
German.  The  hermit,  who  was  only  too  anxious  to 
talk,  put  his  hands  behind  his  head,  and  with  his  sunken 
eyes  fixed  on  the  ceiling,  commenced  the  relation  of 
the  story  of  his  life.  Pursley,  although  he  was  a  very 
old  man  when  he  re-told  the  story,  declared  that  it 
made  such  an  impression  on  his  mind  that  he  could 
vouch  for  every  detail,  and  it  was  a  remarkable  story. 

The  old  recluse  did  not  attempt  to  describe  his  birth- 
place, his  early  circumstcmces,  except  that  Dan  Schultz, 
the  name  under  which  he  was  known  in  the  mountains 
adjacent  to  the  Juniata,  was  not  his  real  cognomen. 
He  had  come  of  a  military  family,  and  early  in  life 
had  secured  a  sub-lieutenant's  commission  in  the  Bava- 
rian Army.  He  was  not  popular  with  his  brother  offi- 
cers, as  he  was  more  artistic  and  literary  in  his  tastes 
than  they,  who  gave  most  of  their  time  to  roystering 
and  pleasure  seeking.  He  was  much  given  to  solitary 
walks  in  the  forests,  where  he  communed  with  nature, 
and  composed  bits  of  verse,  which  unfortunately  he 
never  wrote  down.  He  liked  to  visit  old  castles  and 
armories  which  abounded  at  Munich,  near  which  city 
he  was  stationed. 

He  became  on  friendly  terms  with  the  armorer  in 
charge  of  one  of  the  palaces,  and  was  present  at  a  re- 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES 


ception  given  in  the  armory  in  honor  of  a  French  sa- 
vant who  was  writing  a  book  on  mediaeval  arms.  In 
addition  to  the  nobihty  and  officers,  many  intellectuals 
attended.  It  was  in  the  evening  and  a  few  lamplights 
sought  to  supplement  the  fitful  glow  of  many  candles  to 
light  the  deep,  dungeon-like  rooms.  TTie  young  officer, 
like  one  in  a  dream,  wandered  about  among  the  dismal 
trappings  of  the  long  ago,  picturing  to  himself  the  lives 
of  warrior  knights  and  their  ladies,  scarcely  noticing  the 
brilliant  throng  who  laughed  and  chatted  and  moved 
about  on  every  side.  Standing  in  front  of  a  peculiarly 
fashioned  suit  of  chain  armor,  in  a  dim  corner  of  the 
main  chamber,  he  noticed  a  couple  so  unusual  looking 
that  it  roused  him  from  his  dream.  They  were  a  man 
and  woman;  yet  he  noticed  the  man  first.  The  first 
impression  was  that  he  was  a  soldier  and  must  be  very 
old.  Dressed  in  knee  breeches,  with  black  silk  stock- 
ings, and  low  shoes  with  silver  buckles,  a  long  black 
coat  and  lace  jabot  he  seemed  like  a  figure  from  the 
previous  century.  The  man's  face  was  pasty,  there 
were  dark  puffs  under  the  eyes,  he  wore  a  wig  with  an 
officer's  pigtail,  and  on  his  upper  lip,  under  the  eagle- 
like nose,  was  a  slim  black  line  to  indicate  a  mustache. 
The  old  man  carried  a  silver-headed  cane,  it  might 
have  been  a  sword-cane,  so  popular  in  those  days.  He 
seemed  anxious  to  explain  the  armor  to  his  companion, 
a  very  young  woman.  She  was  probably  little  over 
twenty,  with  a  plump,  finely  rounded  figure,  and  if 
anything  was  a  little  above  the  middle  height.  Her 
eyes,  which  she  kept  downcast,  were  further  hidden  by 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  5 

pale  hair  worn  low,  under  a  black  peach-basket  hat. 
Her  nose,  very  retrousse,  and  her  pale  transparent  skin, 
made  the  deepest  impression,  as  also  the  fact  that  she 
was  not  gowned  as  elaborately  as  most  of  the  other 
women  present. 

The  young  officer,  keeping  in  the  background,  fol- 
lowed the  odd  couple  about  the  rooms  for  half  an  hour, 
but  never  once  did  the  beautiful  young  woman  glance 
up,  or  look  around.  Meeting  his  friend  the  armorer, 
he  asked  him  who  the  pair  might  be.  The  armorer 
expressed  surprise,  saying  that  they  were  not  friends  of 
his,  that  he  had  never  seen  them  before  in  Munich. 
Furthermore  he  had  not  observed  them  come  in;  per- 
haps they  were  friends  of  the  Frenchman  in  whose 
honor  the  reception  was  given.  But  as  other  persons 
spoke  to  the  armorer,  the  chance  for  further  explana- 
tion was  not  secured. 

When  the  officer  looked  for  the  beautiful  girl  and 
her  grizzled  companion,  they  were  nowhere  to  be  found 
in  any  of  the  apartments.  He  then  sought  the  old 
doorkeeper.  That  person  could  remember  no  such 
couple,  the  reception  was  not  for  strangers  and  he 
recognized  the  faces  of  practically  every  one  who  had 
been  there.  Mystified  and  half  in  love,  the  young  sol- 
dier, wandered  out  into  the  night  air.  The  episode 
made  such  an  impression  on  him  that  he  could  not  go 
to  bed,  and  the  next  day  he  was  so  deficient  in  his 
tactics  that  he  was  rebuked  by  his  superiors. 

Six  years  passed.  The  young  soldier  found  himself 
in  the  vortex  of  the  Seven  Week's  War,  a  war  with 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES 


Bavaria  and  Austria  on  one  side,  and  the  growing  mil- 
itary autocracy  of  Prussia  on  the  other  ( 1 866) .  He 
had  not  received  the  promotions  that  had  come  to  his 
brother  officers,  he  was  known  as  a  poor  officer,  yet  his 
knowledge  of  his  books  was  greater  than  almost  any 
man  in  the  regiment.  His  failure  was  due  to  his  dreamy 
nature,  his  errant  habits.  He  lacked  the  exactness  of 
a  martinet  and  tactician.  Yet  materially  he  was  better 
off,  as  he  had  inherited  a  small  fortune  from  an  uncle,  a 
retired  major  general.  The  officers  carried  their  roys- 
tering  habits  to  the  headquarters  and  camps.  They 
must  have  a  good  time,  they  must  dance,  they  must 
mingle  with  attractive  women. 

On  the  evening  before  the  very  first  engagement  an 
elaborate  soiree  was  given  in  the  schloss  which  had 
been  set  apart  as  the  regimental  headquarters.  The 
best  people  of  the  city  were  invited,  as  well  as  relatives 
of  the  gallant  soldiers  who  would  defend  their  coun- 
try's honor  on  the  morrow.  The  marble  hall  was  bril- 
liantly lit  by  several  crj'^stal  chandeliers,  and  the  young 
officer  stood  in  a  group  of  his  companions,  watching 
the  arrival  of  the  jeweled  and  fur-robed  ladies  and  the 
officers  from  other  regiments.  It  was  a  gorgeous  scene, 
but  one  incongruous  with  actual  campaigning.  As  one 
by  one  the  beautiful  and  perfumed  women,  cloaked 
and  veiled,  swept  up  the  broad  steps  and  disappeared  in 
the  direction  of  the  dressing  rooms,  the  young  officer's 
thoughts  turned  to  the  fair  girl  he  had  seen  in  the 
armory  six  years  before.  These  thoughts  had  barely 
taken  form  when,  to  his  surprise,  he  saw  her,  looking 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES 


more  queenly  than  ever,  entering  the  palace.  Her 
head  was  lowered,  but  he  could  see  that  in  addition  to 
the  folds  of  a  heavy  white  veil,  she  wore  a  small  black 
mask  over  her  eyes. 

As  it  was  not  to  be  a  masked  ball,  only  an  informal 
gathering  of  distinguished  sympathizers  on  the  eve  of 
a  battle,  why  was  this  one  woman  masked?  Unable 
to  contain  his  curiosity  longer,  and  not  a  little  amazed 
that  none  of  the  other  officers  commented  on  the  phe- 
nomenon, he  caught  by  the  sleeve  the  officer  who  stood 
nearest  to  him.  The  youth  in  gold  lace  drew  his  arm 
away  testily,  as  he  did  not  like  his  interrogator,  and  in 
response  to  the  direct  question  said  that  he  could  see 
no  masked  woman  passing  by.  Dumfounded,  he 
turned  to  several  other  officers,  who  positively  stated 
they  could  see  no  such  woman,  then  became  rigid  and 
silent.  But  after  the  woman  had  passed,  the  unpop- 
ular officer  felt  that  his  companions  had  pretended  they 
had  not  seen  the  woman  in  order  to  check  any  further 
attempts  at  social  intercourse. 

All  during  the  evening  the  young  man  scanned  the 
forms  and  faces  of  the  guests,  but  could  see  no  one  who 
resembled  the  woman  of  the  black  mask.  Having 
learned  his  lesson  with  his  brother  officers,  he  sought, 
as  a  last  resort,  a  footman,  who  had  been  on  duty  at 
the  grand  portal.  The  flunky  declared  that  it  was  his 
duty  to  admit  only  such  persons  as  he  knew,  but  that 
no  masked  woman  had  gone  in,  or  could  have  gotten  in. 
Such  a  person  would  have  been  seized  and  turned  over 
to  the  sentries  outside  as  a  spy.      Again  the  young 


8  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

officer  passed  a  sleepless  night,  and  the  next  morning 
blundered  with  his  fellows,  and  helped  to  lead  the 
vanguard  of  retreat. 

It  would  have  been  thought  that  such  an  experience 
would  have  sobered  the  military  leaders,  and  warfare 
henceforth  be  approached  with  more  seriousness.  But 
no  such  thing.  On  the  eve  of  the  very  next  engage- 
ment a  soiree  with  ladies  must  be  given.  Again  it  took 
place  in  a  huge  castle  appropriated  by  the  military 
commanders.  Again  the  rooms  looked  as  bright  as  the 
previous  rout  on  the  battlefield  had  been  gloomy.  The 
great  ladies  whose  faith  in  their  Bavarian  heroes  was 
unshattered  v/ere  all  present  to  cheer  them  on  to  their 
next  day's  patriotic  task.  Perhaps  the  woman  with 
the  black  mask  might  be  there.  The  young  officer, 
who  otherwise  would  have  shunned  this  ill-timed  revel, 
was  early  on  hand.  In  fact,  he  had  been  solicitous 
lest  he  were  not  invited,  his  brothers  in  arms  had  a 
strange  habit  of  "unintentionally"  leaving  him  out  of 
many  things.  He  managed  to  station  himself  very  near 
the  doorway,  where  the  guests  entered.  He  waited  a 
long  while,  until  it  looked  as  if  the  mysterious  womem 
was  not  coming  at  all.  Just  as  he  was  about  to  leave 
his  post,  she  came  in,  moving  by  so  close  that  he  almost 
touched  her.  To  his  wonderment,  she  again  wore  the 
small  black  mask  over  her  eyes.  Turning  to  some 
elderly  ladies,  with  whom  fortunately  he  had  a  slight 
acquaintance,  he  asked  who  was  the  young  woman 
with  the  black  mask.  They  quickly  answered  that 
they  saw  no  such  woman,  scanning  the  foyer  with  their 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES 


lorgnettes  in  feminine  interest.  Forgetting  his  manners, 
the  young  officer  pointed,  but  they  shook  their  heads, 
and  reiterated  that  they  saw  no  such  person.  There 
was  nothing  to  do  but  to  apologize  and  slink  away,  but 
he  remained  all  the  evening  in  a  corner,  watching  for 
the  masked  woman  in  the  gay  assemblage.  But  she 
was  not  to  be  located,  although  many  and  beautiful 
were  the  guests. 

Another  sleepless  night  fell  to  his  lot,  and  once 
more  he  participated  in  a  retreat  that  was  little  better 
than  a  rout  on  the  morrow.  His  corps  being  cut  to 
pieces  and  demoralized,  the  survivors  were  sent  to  an- 
other part  of  the  country  to  reinforce  the  hard-pressed 
Austrians.  A  strong  force  had  been  gotten  together ;  it 
looked  as  if  the  tide  at  last  would  turn  to  victory.  The 
allies  had  chosen  their  own  ground  for  a  battle,  and  the 
impression  was  strong  that  the  Prussian  hordes  must  go 
back  in  retreat. 

The  night  before  the  battle  that  would  change  all  it 
was  decided  to  lessen  the  strain  by  some  diversion  of  a 
social  nature.  The  commanding  generals  were  occu- 
pying some  large  barracks,  which  were  aptly  con- 
structed for  entertaining  congenial  guests,  especially 
the  fair  sex.  Invitations  were  given  to  the  ladies  of  the 
local  nobility  and  gentry  and  to  the  wives  of  the  few 
high  officers  who  were  able  to  be  with  their  consorts, 
and  the  affair  promised  to  be  one  of  great  brilliance  and 
strengthening  to  the  esprit  de  corps. 

The  young  officer  who  was  being  treated  more 
civilly  by  his  Austrian  companions  than  by  his  old 


10  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

Bavarian  comrades  in  arms,  was  on  hand  early,  stand- 
ing near  the  grand  entrance,  under  a  crystal  cande- 
labrum, watching  the  happy  throng  assemble.  In  gay 
little  companies  of  twos  and  threes  the  ladies  arrived, 
perfumed,  cloaked,  gloved  and  veiled.  There  had 
been  so  many  dull  days  of  bivouac  and  campaign  that 
more  officers  were  clustered  about  the  doorway  than 
the  dictates  of  good  breeding  would  generally  allow. 
A.mong  these  officers  were  numerous  Bavarians,  some 
of  them  from  the  young  officer's  former  regiment  from 
the  environs  of  Munich.  Their  attitude  toward  him 
was  still  stiff  and  haughty;  they  never  spoke  with  him 
except  on  official  matters. 

In  the  midst  of  the  magnificent  scene  the  vigilant 
young  man  saw  the  masked  woman  come  in.  She 
looked  queenly,  with  a  white  satin  and  ermine  cloak 
thrown  over  her,  her  ceudre  hair  hidden  by  a  heavy 
white  veil,  and  the  tiny  black  mask  accentuating  her  re- 
trousse nose  and  the  waxlike  pallor  of  her  skin.  Gaz- 
ing at  her  with  an  intense  expression,  as  if  to  make  sure 
that  his  eyes  were  not  deceiving  him,  the  excited  youth 
clutched  at  the  arm  of  the  officer  standing  nearest  to 
him.  He  demanded  of  him  the  woman's  name,  and 
what  she  was  doing  at  the  ball  wearing  a  black  mask. 
The  officer  turned  on  him  with  anger,  answering  with 
an  oath  that  he  saw  no  such  woman,  that  he  must  be 
a  madman. 

The  excited  soldier  declared  that  she  had  stood  in 
front  of  them,  and  to  prove  his  words,  rushed  forward 
after  the  fleeing  figure  of  the  woman.     Almost  at  the 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  11 

dressing  room  door  he  came  up  to  her  and  sought  to 
seize  her  by  the  arm.  If  it  was  an  ungallant  act,  it  had 
a  hideous  sequel.  The  young  officer  found  himself 
standing  alone  in  the  center  of  the  spacious  corridor 
holding  in  his  hand  the  severed  arm  of  a  skeleton.  A 
cry  of  horror  went  up  from  the  great  ladies  as  they 
issued  from  the  dressing  room  to  join  their  partners,  a 
laugh  of  exultation  from  the  assembled  officers.  The 
disliked  officer  had  had  a  practical  joke  played  on  him 
by  some  one.  By  common  consent  they  elbowed  him 
toward  a  narrow  door  at  the  end  of  the  hall  used  by 
servants.  Some  one  slammed  the  door  in  his  face,  and 
he  slipped  on  the  narrow  stairs  and  fell  heavily  to  the 
bottom  of  the  flight.  The  skeleton's  arm  dropped 
from  his  grasp,  and  crashed  on  the  stone  floor. 

When  the  unhappy  officer  recovered  himself  he 
found  that  he  was  lying  in  a  pool  of  dirty  water,  his 
dress  uniform  was  ruined.  Staggering  to  his  feet,  he 
ran  along  the  gloomy  passage-ways  until  he  came  to 
a  low  door,  which  he  unbolted,  finding  himself  in  a 
dark  alley  paved  with  cobble  stones.  At  the  far  end 
of  it  he  saw  a  white  light  above  a  door,  and  to  it  he 
hurried  as  best  he  could,  his  high-heeled  boots  slipping 
on  the  uneven  stones.  In  front  of  the  door  stood  a  pale 
thin  woman,  with  a  face  like  a  fiend  or  a  harpie.  He 
asked  her  where  he  was,  and  she  mumbled  the  unin- 
telligible name  of  a  street.  His  head  began  to  swim, 
and  he  asked  if  he  could  go  inside  and  lie  down.  The 
shocks  of  the  night  had  been  too  much  for  him,  for 
he  remained  unconscious  for  nearly  forty-eight  hours. 


12  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

When  he  awoke,  several  stout  men  and  women,  like 
working  people,  were  bending  over  his  couch.  The 
harpie-like  woman  was  nowhere  in  evidence.  He 
asked  where  he  was  and  was  told  that  he  had  been 
picked  up  outside  of  the  house  next  door  and  carried 
inside,  where  he  had  remained  unconscious.  It  being 
war  times  they  could  find  no  doctor.  A  great  battle 
had  been  fought,  the  news  had  just  come  in  that  the 
Bavarians  and  the  Austrians  had  been  routed.  And 
there  he  lay  in  his  Bavarian  uniform,  had  doubtless 
been  accounted  a  deserter  in  the  combat  which  became 
known  to  history  as  the  decisive  battle  of  Koniggratz. 
He  told  his  story  frankly  to  the  people  about  him,  who 
were  respectable  artisans.  He  begged  them  to  loan 
him  a  suit  of  civilian  clothes,  so  that  he  might  make  his 
escape  from  the  victorious  Prussians.  After  some  hesi- 
tation, the  workmen  agreed  to  do  so,  but  advised  him 
to  remain  with  them  another  day  or  two  as  the  streets 
swarmed  with  the  victorious  soldiery. 

The  following  night,  attired  as  a  journeyman  plas- 
terer, the  young  officer  sallied  forth.  His  mustache 
had  grown  longer  during  his  illness,  he  had  a  three- 
days'  growth  of  beard,  which  added  to  the  disguise. 
He  was  "recognized"  by  another  workingman,  whom 
he  fell  in  with  at  a  street  corner  and  accompanied  him 
into  the  country  to  repair  a  chateau  occupied  by  Prus- 
sian officers.  Once  outside  the  lines,  he  waited  until 
darkness,  and  passed  on  to  a  region  of  safety.  By 
various  subterfuges,  aided  by  a  small  purse  of  gold,  and 
with  a  rare  amount  of  luck,  he  succeeded  in  reaching 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  13 

France.  Being  a  linguist,  he  worked  his  way  across 
the  country,  and  at  the  coast  got  on  an  immigrant  ship 
sailing  from  Havre.  It  took  him  sixty-four  days 
crossing  the  ocean,  tempests  raged,  and  an  epidemic 
of  cholera  wiped  out  four  hundred  of  the  five  hundred 
passengers.  He  got  through  Castle  Garden,  and  for  a 
time  worked  in  a  brewery  in  New  Jersey.  At  length 
he  fancied  he  was  recognized,  and  would  be  murdered, 
so  he  beat  his  way  on  a  freight  train  to  Huntingdon,  in 
the  Juniata  country.  There  he  worked  at  anything 
until  he  learned  the  lay  of  the  land,  eventually  locating 
in  the  remotest  part  of  Short  Mountain.  There  he 
lived  by  hunting  and  trapping,  and  by  the  judicious 
expenditure  of  the  little  money  which  he  brought  with 
him  to  America.  And  he  was  well  satisfied  with  his 
mountain  home;  he  felt  at  rest  there,  he  cherished  no 
fear. 

But  one  night  when  he  came  in  from  a  deer  hunt, 
dragging  a  splendid  stag,  the  rays  of  his  lantern  dis- 
closed the  form  of  the  woman  who  had  caused  the 
upset  of  his  lawful  destiny,  seated  on  his  chair  beside 
the  cylinder  stove.  She  looked  just  as  she  did  that 
far-off  night  in  the  armory  at  Munich,  but  if  anything 
more  beautiful.  Before  he  could  control  himself  the 
old  recluse  spoke  to  her,  asking  her  who  she  was,  just 
as  he  had  asked  of  many  other  persons  in  the  glittering 
ballrooms.  Instantly  he  repented  of  his  rashness,  as 
the  figure  commenced  to  fade  away,  and  he  recol- 
lected the  old  superstition  that  a  ghost  spoken  to  must 
vanish.    In  despair  he  sank  down  on  the  floor,  his  hands 


14  JUNIATA   MEMORIES 

clutched  out  in  anguish;  he  felt  some  object.  He 
clambered  to  his  feet  and  found  himself  holding  a  small 
black  crepe  mask.  Then  everything  seemed  to  con- 
fuse him;  had  he  dreamed  his  whole  past  life,  had  he 
brought  the  mask  with  him  from  the  old  country,  or 
how  had  it  come  into  his  possession?  It  was  all  too 
strange  to  be  true.  Recovering  himself,  he  sat  on  the 
chair,  squeezing  the  mask  to  make  sure  that  he  was  not 
in  a  trance.  Then  came  over  him  the  realization  that 
the  meaning  of  it  all  was  that  he  would  soon  die,  the 
woman  who  was  the  portent  of  defeat  to  the  Bavarian 
arms  meant  death  to  him,  and  opening  the  door  of  the 
stove,  he  threw  the  mask  inside  and  a  piece  of  lighted 
paper  after  it. 

It  was  soon  after  that  eventful  night  when  he  made 
friends  with  William  Pursley  and  gave  him  his  little 
bundle  of  documents.  But  Pursley  paid  small  heed 
to  the  old  man's  conviction  of  approaching  death.  He 
took  the  packet  away  with  him,  and  when  he  reached 
his  cozy  home  across  the  northern  ridges  in  the  shadow 
of  Paddy's  Mountain  he  threw  the  papers  into  a  chest 
where  he  kept  many  things  he  valued.  Late  in  the 
following  summer,  when  poring  over  a  Htintingdon 
County  paper,  he  read  of  the  death  of  the  hermit  of 
the  Short  Mountain,  "Old  Dan."  He  then  thought  of 
the  bundle  of  papers,  and  opened  the  chest  to  get  them 
out.  He  could  not  find  them.  He  called  for  his  wife, 
but  she  had  no  recollection  of  them.  Perhaps  one  of 
their  daughters  who  was  in  Pittsburg  on  a  visit  had 
thrown  them  out  when  she  cleaned  house  at  Easter  time. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES 


II. 

THE  REDE. 

A  LEGEND  OF  SINKING  CREEK  VALLEY. 

IN  beautiful  Sinking  Creek  Valley,  near  the  won- 
derful Indian  Cave,  in  the  region  of  the  sink-holes 
and  underground  streams,  on  a  hillside  backed  by 
ancient  pines  and  facing  the  romantic  Canoe  Moun- 
tains, stood  a  substantial  log  farmstead,  the  home  of 
a  more  or  less  erratic  Ulster  Scot  named  Thomas 
Ancketell.  For  a  number  of  years  he  had  conducted  a 
stopping-place  for  travelers  at  the  foot  of  the  South 
Mountains,  near  what  is  now  Upper  Strasbiirg,  Frank- 
lin County,  but  desiring  a  more  open-air  existence,  he 
had  removed  with  his  family  into  the  Juniata  country. 
Becoming  the  possessor  of  a  farm  of  respectable  size  he 
prospered  and  was  more  happy  than  in  the  days  when 
he  catered  to  the  public  as  a  boniface.  Probably  he 
would  have  spent  his  entire  life  as  a  tavern  keeper  had 
not  his  daughter  Eleanor  pointed  out  to  him  the  ad- 
vantages of  farming  and  the  care-free  life  that  goes 
with  it. 

Thomas  Ashe,  the  youthful  English  traveler,  who 
spent  an  evening  at  the  mountain  tavern  in  1806,  and 
who  was  much  taken  with  the  fair  girl,  thus  describes 
the  lovely  Eleanor  Ancketell.     "Her  person  was  tall 


16  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

and  elegant;  her  eyes  were  large  and  blue;  her  fea- 
tures regular  and  animated;  and  expressive  of  a  pride 
and  dignity  which  the  meanest  clothing,  and  the 
strongest  consciousness  of  her  humble  circumstances  in 
life,  could  neither  destroy  nor  conceal." 

And  rightfully  she  thus  demeaned  herself,  for  was 
not  her  father,  if  any  good  can  possibly  come  from  re- 
ferring to  such  subjects,  descended  from  a  younger 
brother  of  the  MajorAncketell.of  "Ancketell's  Grove," 
in  the  County  Armagh,  who  fell  at  the  Battle  of  Drum- 
banagher,  March  13,  1688,  and  is  buried  in  Glaslough 
Church  }  But  several  generations  of  ne'er-do-wells  had 
shattered  the  family  pride  in  her  father,  until  he  cared 
nothing  who  he  was,  only  to  have  it  bom  afresh  in  his 
daughter's  charming  soul. 

Guiding  the  family  after  the  death  of  the  wife  and 
mother,  which  occurred  soon  after  their  arrival  at 
Upper  Strasburg,  Eleanor  had  striven  until  successful 
in  causing  them  to  move  into  a  new  and  more  rural 
locality.  There  the  family  had  prospered  from  the 
outset,  and  the  passion  for  drink  had  subsided  in  the 
father. 

Eleanor  Ancketell,  with  her  beauty  and  charm  nat- 
urally had  many  admirers  in  the  Juniata  country,  espe- 
cially in  the  secluded  valley  where  women  of  her  ca- 
pacity and  character  were  seldom  met  with.  But  there 
were  rumors  of  an  earlier  love  affair,  perhaps  it  was 
for  the  traveler  Ashe ;  at  any  rate  she  maintained  a  cer- 
tain reserve,  which  in  reality  added  to  her  charms.  On 
Sunday  afternoons  she  had  a  habit  of  sitting  under  a 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  17 

mammoth  walnut  tree  by  the  roadside  alone,  reading 
her  Bible,  and  before  returning  to  the  cabin,  a  few 
stanzas  from  a  beautifully  bound  volume  of  Thomson, 
which  had  been  presented  to  her  by  the  English  trav- 
eler. The  sturdy  young  mountaineers  as  they  rode  by 
on  their  stout  Conestoga  chargers  cast  many  a  lingering 
glance  at  the  fair  young  reader.  How  to  penetrate  her 
reserve  and  become  friends  was  2Ui  absorbing  question 
with  all  of  them. 

Perhaps  the  most  sincerely  interested,  as  well  as  the 
most  attractive-looking  of  the  mountain  gallants  who 
rode  by  was  young  Adam  Engart,  of  Canoe  Valley. 
He  was  a  splendid  horseman,  full  of  life  and  fire,  yet 
withal  of  serious  nature  and  devoted  to  books.  Con- 
stitutionally, he  disliked  making  any  attempts  at  con- 
versation, fearing  that  they  would  not  be  welcome. 
There  was  a  general  store  near  the  old  lead  mines,  the 
only  store  in  the  valleys,  which  he  visited  every  few 
days.  On  week  days  he  seldom  saw  the  fair  Eleanor 
about  her  home,  but  on  Sunday  afternoons  she  was  al- 
ways seated  on  her  favorite  bench  under  the  old  wal- 
nut, even  when  the  winds  whistled  and  showers  of 
buff-colored  leaves  were  tossed  to  the  ground. 

Adam  Engart  had  never  seen  her  at  church,  though 
he  had  purposely  visited  the  Presbyterian  and  Lutheran 
congregations.  At  the  Calvinists'  meeting  house  he 
had  been  told  that  she  belonged  to  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land, but  had  on  rare  occasions  worshipped  with  the 
Presbyterians.  The  young  man's  grandparents  had 
been  Lutherans,  but  his  parents  and  himself  attended 


18  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

all  the  local  churches,  extracting  the  best  of  the  varied 
teachings. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  in  mid- August,  when  Adam 
was  riding  homeward  from  the  Lutheran  services,  he 
made  bold  to  stop  a  moment,  and  in  his  most  friendly 
manner  asked  the  fair  girl  what  she  was  reading  so 
intently : 

"It  is  the  only  book  that  I  read  outside  of  the  Bible, 
one  of  the  few  I  have,  and  the  one  I  most  prize — the 
Poems  of  James  Thomson." 

Adam  asked  her  if  she  was  fond  of  reading,  to  which 
she  replied  in  the  affirmative,  but  added  that  she  did 
not  own  many  books;  they  were  hard  to  procure  in 
such  a  remote  valley. 

"This  book  was  given  to  me  by  an  acquaintance  the 
year  we  left  Upper  Strasburg  for  this  locality — that 
was  about  four  years  ago." 

She  did  not  state,  however,  that  apart  from  glancing 
over  some  of  the  numbers  of  the  Huntingdon  Magazine 
it  was  the  only  book  of  literature  that  she  had  read  in 
all  that  time,  although  if  she  had  tried,  she  could  have 
borrowed  others  from  the  cultivated  Scotch-Irish  farm- 
ers, who  formed  the  corporal's  guard  of  settlers  in  the 
valley. 

There  is  something  about  the  personality  of  books 
that  associates  them  with  the  happy  or  hopeful  hours 
when  we  first  read  them.  This  edition  of  Thomson 
stood  for  a  bigger  and  better  life  and  a  broader  world 
through  which  a  last  fleeting  glimpse  had  come  by  the 
handsome  young  English  traveler  who  presented  it  to 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  19 

her.  She  prized  the  book  as  the  emblem  of  a  great 
idea.  There  were  several  pauses  in  her  conversation 
with  Adam  Engart,  but  he  managed  to  tell  her  that 
he,  too,  was  fond  of  books,  and  if  she  wished  he  would 
bring  her  the  following  Sunday  an  edition  of  the  poems 
of  the  Irish  poet,  Thomas  Moore.  His  brother  had 
brought  him  the  book  from  Philadelphia;  he  believed 
that  she  would  enjoy  the  Irish  melodies,  having  heard 
that  she  had  been  born  on  the  Emerald  Isle.  Though 
not  as  yet  faithless  to  TTiomson,  the  thought  of  Irish 
poetry  quite  thrilled  her  and  she  smilingly  assented  to 
the  promised  gift.  Adam  was  tactful  enough  not  to 
remain  too  long,  so  he  mounted  his  charger,  and  started 
down  the  hill  in  the  direction  of  the  Gap  in  the  Canoe 
Mountains. 

The  following  Sunday  was  more  like  a  day  in  late 
autumn.  It  was  overcast,  with  a  sky  of  solid  greyness, 
with  gusts  of  wind,  which  shook  loose  the  prematurely 
yellow  leaves  of  the  chestnut  trees.  These,  with  par- 
ticles of  dust  and  grass,  made  "whirlpools"  as  he  rode 
along.  Under  his  arm,  securely  wrapped  in  a  piece 
of  homespun  to  protect  the  morocco  covers,  was  the 
precious  volume  by  Tom  Moore.  As  he  rode,  the 
young  man  whispered  to  himself  verses  by  the  tuneful 
poet.  Never  had  the  ride  up  the  stony  trail  and  over 
the  divide  seemed  so  short.  TTie  horse  never  missed  a 
step,  the  road  seemed  like  the  "Golden  Streets." 

Primitive  natures,  those  which  are  untouched  by 
licentiousness,  can  feel  the  same  sweet  pure  emotion  of 
growing  affection  as  those  whom  culture  has  taught 


20  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

appreciation  of  all  that  is  best.  As  he  neared  the 
spreading  walnut  tree  on  the  top  of  the  hill  he  could 
see  Eleanor  seated  on  the  bench,  with  a  green  home- 
spun jacket,  and  her  shapely  hands  folded  over  her 
knees.  She  made  a  pretty  picture!  With  his  keen 
eyesight,  the  sight  of  a  hunter  and  marksman,  he  no- 
ticed that  the  book  of  poems  by  Thomson  was  nowhere 
in  sight.  He  did  not  think,  as  a  more  self-satisfied  per- 
son might,  that  the  beautiful  being  was  interested  in 
him,  and  was  anxious  to  show  it  through  preferring  his 
book. 

When  he  drew  up  opposite  the  tree,  the  girl  arose 
and  came  forward  to  meet  him,  smiling  blithely.  He 
unmounted  gracefully,  quickly  tying  the  big  horse  to 
an  upright  root  of  the  pine-stump  fence.  There  was  a 
cordial  greeting,  followed  by  the  presentadon  and 
opening  of  the  book  of  poems.  It  was  a  larger  sized 
volume,  and  was  even  more  ornately  bound  than  the 
book  by  Thomson,  and  this  tome  had  the  added  charm 
of  a  dozen  or  more  copperplate  engravings.  Wlien 
Eleanor  looked  at  it  she  noticed  an  inscription  in  the 
fly-leaf;  from  the  crimson  her  pretty  cheeks  turned,  it 
was  evident  that  it  was  not  less  flowery  than  the  one 
written  by  the  traveler  Ashe. 

The  young  people  sat  dov^nn  together  on  the  bench, 
and  despite  the  rawness  of  the  air,  the  hours  went  by 
with  utmost  rapidity.  When  the  girl  announced  that 
she  must  return  to  the  house  to  prepare  supper  she 
coupled  it  with  an  invitation  to  him  to  remain.  But  as 
he  was  anxious  not  to  "overdo"  matters,  he  courteously 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  21 

declined,  and  departed,  promising  ere  he  rode  away  to 
be  back  the  following  Sabbath.  When  he  was  gone 
Eleanor  missed  him;  it  was  the  beginning  of  a  spiritual 
communion  that  was  to  be  the  greatest  epoch  in  her 
life. 

Every  Sunday  they  met  until  cold  weather  set  in. 
By  that  time  their  affection  had  grown  to  a  degree  of 
love  that  made  further  silence  impossible.  Adam  told 
her  of  his  great  love,  of  his  desire  to  make  her  his  bride. 
Eleanor,  replying,  told  him  that  her  love  was  equally 
intense,  but  that  she  could  not  marry  him  and  leave 
her  father  and  brothers,  who  depended  on  her  for  al- 
most everything.  If  her  brothers  married,  new  homes 
might  be  started  through  them,  but  at  present  the  first 
and  real  duty  was  to  the  home  circle.  It  was  not  a 
hopeless  wait,  so  that  Adam  accepted  it  as  his  fate, 
trusting  to  work  out  some  plan  which  would  facilitate 
an  early  union.  Their  love  was  on  such  a  high  plane 
that  when  they  were  apart  they  seemed  to  be  in  con- 
stcuit  communion — they  literally  spoke  to  each  other 
through  space.  When  they  were  together  they  hardly 
needed  to  speak,  so  close  was  their  harmony  of  thought 
and  purpose.  It  was  that  feeling  of  spiritual  nearness 
that  he  had  that  led  Adam  to  begin  the  acquaintance, 
and  Eleanor,  despite  her  natural  reserve,  felt  impelled 
to  meet  him  more  than  half  way.  Their  separations 
lasting  for  six  consecutive  days  did  not  seem  as  severe 
as  would  have  been  the  case  if  no  spiritual  images 
could  be  conjured  up,  and  where  an  abyss  of  mutual 
distrust  and  uncertainty  exists. 


11  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

Adam  was  much  interested  in  hunting  and  trapping, 
and  despite  his  youth,  had  a  record  of  having  slaugh- 
tered a  hundred  deer,  fifty  wolves,  a  dozen  bears,  sev- 
eral panthers  and  scores  of  wildcats  or  "catamounts." 
Among  the  earliest  settlers  the  young  of  the  panther 
was  mistaken  for  the  wildcat  of  Europe,  and  every 
panther's  cub  which  was  slain  was  falsely  dubbed  a 
"wildcat."  The  short-tailed  bay  lynx,  the  real  wildcat 
of  America,  was  known  to  the  pioneers  of  the  Juniata 
country  as  a  "catamount,"  as  farther  north  it  was 
styled  the  "bob-cat." 

In  the  winter  months  Adam  had  a  pack  of  small 
hound-like  dogs  which  he  trained  to  trail  the  bob-cats 
or  catamounts.  It  was  exciting  sport,  as  the  fleet-footed 
felines  gave  the  dogs  quite  a  chase,  and  when  the  trail 
got  too  hot,  they  would  climb  a  tree,  generally  a  pitch 
pine,  and  defy  their  pursuers  until  the  hunter  came  i^ 
and  sent  a  bullet  into  their  sanctuary.  Then  they  would 
come  tumbling  down  and  if  not  mortally  wounded  give 
combat  to  man  and  dogs. 

During  the  winter  of  Adam's  courtship  he  partici- 
pated in  many  such  hunts,  and  in  order  to  have  Eleanor 
share  in  the  pastime,  he  selected  the  best  of  furs,  those 
longest  and  softest  and  most  beautifully  dappled,  and 
had  made  for  her  a  cloak,  cap  and  muff.  It  was  a 
unique  outfit,  and  was  very  becoming  to  the  charming 
young  girl's  type  of  beauty. 

It  so  happened  that  Adam  kept  up  these  hunting  ex- 
peditions until  the  snow  had  almost  disappeared  from 
the  foothills,  where  the  "bob-cats"  were  most  numerous 


Ui 

< 
> 

O 
z 

z 


a 
z 

5 

Du 

en 

X 

u 
< 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  23 

on  account  of  their  fondness  for  the  rabbits  that 
swarmed  among  the  stump  fences  of  the  newly  cleared 
back  lots.  Nature  had  wisely  put  the  wildcat  in  the 
forests  to  keep  in  check  the  increase  of  rabbits  and 
hares,  which  otherwise  might  have  worked  untold  dam- 
age to  growing  trees,  as  the  wolves  were  Nature's 
safety  valves  to  keep  the  deer  from  becoming  inert  or 
overplenty.  Eleanor's  memory  of  these  wildcats  was 
particularly  vivid  from  her  earliest  days  of  the  moun- 
tain tavern,  when  in  the  forests  around  the  old  house, 
the  lynxes  would  call  at  night  to  their  mates  on  adjacent 
ridges. 

She  had  always  wanted  to  accompany  Adam  on  one 
of  his  thrilling  hunts,  but  her  household  duties  pre- 
vented. She  was  much  interested  in  what  was  to  be 
the  last  hunt  of  the  season,  and  wished  the  young 
hunter  his  full  share  of  success.  It  was  to  take  place 
on  a  Saturday,  after  the  week's  work  was  done,  and 
the  young  Nimrod  confidently  planned  to  carry  the 
trophies  over  to  his  sweetheart  on  his  customary  Sun- 
day visit.  It  was  about  noon  when  the  young  man 
started  away  gayly,  his  yelping  "cat-dogs"  on  leash. 
Most  of  the  snow  had  gone  from  the  valley  proper,  it 
was  the  last  Saturday  in  March,  but  the  foothills  and 
the  backfields  were  still  covered  with  it.  The  pine- 
covered  mountains  looked  as  wintry  as  in  January, 
especially  the  Cove  range,  on  the  valley's  "winter 
side." 

The  cats,  from  frequent  hunting,  were  less  venture- 
some about  approaching  the  settlements,  but  it  was  still 


24  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

some  distance  from  the  foot  of  the  mountains  when 
their  spoor  was  noticed.  The  tracks  of  several  cats 
were  seen  together,  among  them  those  of  a  prodigiously 
large  one,  which  had  paws  almost  as  big  as  a  Canada 
lynx,  "the  big  grey  wildcat"  of  the  North,  an  animal 
not  known  on  the  Juniata.  The  dogs  were  soon  loosed 
and  the  merry  chase  began.  Field  after  field  was 
crossed,  until  the  foot  of  the  Cove  Mountain  was 
reached.  Right  up  the  steep  side  of  the  lofty  emi- 
nence, right  into  the  dense  original  hemlocks,  the  wary 
animals  had  headed.  The  tracks  looked  extremely 
fresh,  yet  it  seemed  a  long  time  for  them  to  be  brought 
to  bay. 

Over  across  the  valley  Eleanor's  keen  mental  per- 
ceptions followed  the  hunt  as  vividly  as  if  she  had 
been  on  the  scene.  She  sang  at  her  work,  she  seemed 
as  gay  as  the  bold  hunter.  Toward  evening  a  change 
came  over  her  mood  very  suddenly.  A  great  shadow 
seemed  to  descend  on  her,  which  she  ascribed  to  her 
heart's  longing  for  her  lover.  It  did  not  grow  any  less 
as  the  dark  cold  night  settled  in,  her  sleep  was  troubled 
with  hideous  and  formless  dreams.  When  she  awoke 
it  was  a  grey  morning,  warmer  than  the  previous  night, 
and  the  little  snow  that  remained  about  the  corners  of 
the  old  stump  fences  was  melting  fast.  She  seemed 
to  have  a  dizziness  in  her  head,  but  she  got  up  and 
went  about  getting  the  breakfast.  She  tried  to  rouse 
herself  by  picturing  her  lover's  coming,  only  a  few 
hours  off,  with  his  glad  smile,  his  genial  ways,  his  load 
of  tawny  wildcat  skins. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  25 

She  had  been  out  in  the  yard  to  fetch  something 
from  the  smokehouse  to  start  the  breakfast  in  the  big 
pot  which  hung  from  the  crane  in  the  huge  open  fire- 
place, when  to  her  surprise  she  noticed  what  seemed 
to  be  a  wildcat,  and  an  extremely  large  one  at  that, 
crouched  on  a  mat  near  the  kitchen  window.  Its  round 
yellow  eyes  met  hers,  it  crouched  closer  together,  yet 
its  contour  did  not  indicate  hate.  In  all  her  experience 
she  had  never  heard  of  a  catamount  entering  a  house, 
and  she  was  sure  that  it  had  not  been  inside  when  she 
went  to  the  smokehouse,  and  as  a  precaution  she  always 
closed  the  door  when  starting  out.  How  had  the  pest 
gotten  in!  Her  father  and  brothers  were  still  upstairs 
asleep ;  it  would  take  too  long  to  arouse  them,  and  she 
was  not  very  adept  at  handling  firearms,  though  there 
were  several  rifles  and  muskets  in  a  gun-rack  against 
the  wall.  However,  she  determined  to  piit  the  cat 
out,  so  seizing  the  housekeeper's  universal  weapon,  the 
long  iron  poker,  she  flung  the  door  open  wide,  and 
went  after  the  intruder.  The  catamount  put  its  tail  be- 
tween its  legs,  and  giving  the  girl  a  sidelong  glance, 
trotted  nimbly  out  of  the  door.  It  ran  across  the  yard, 
seating  itself  on  a  patch  of  melting  snow. 

When  Eleanor  went  outside  she  was  amazed  to  find 
the  old  family  watchdog,  and  a  "cat-dog"  in  his  day, 
seated  complacently  by  the  kitchen  steps.  She  tried  to 
attract  his  attention  to  the  cat,  lolling  but  twenty  feet 
away,  but  the  hound  professed  neither  to  see  nor  smell 
the  creature.  Taking  the  dog  by  the  nape  of  his  neck, 
she  led  him  up  to  the  side  of  the  cat,  but  he  apparently 


26  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

saw  nothing.  As  she  struck  at  the  cat  again  with  the 
poker,  which  she  held  in  her  left  hand,  the  animal  got 
up  and  leaped  out  of  the  yard,  and  seated  itself  on  top 
of  a  steep  bank  which  rose  above  the  house.  There 
Eleanor  left  it,  and  returned  to  the  kitchen  to  continue 
her  domestic  duties. 

In  due  course  of  time  the  father  and  the  boys  came 
downstairs  and  she  recounted  to  them  her  marvelous 
adventure  with  the  boldest  of  "catamounts."  They 
were  naturally  surprised  and  equally  disgusted  with 
the  conduct  of  their  hitherto  unimpeachable  watchdog. 
After  breakfast  they  went  out  in  the  yard  to  see  if  the 
cat  was  to  be  located.  Eleanor  pointed  to  the  bank, 
where  she  said  she  saw  it  still  crouching,  but  none  of 
the  others  professed  to  see  it  and  it  was  too  sloppy 
under  foot  to  further  investigate. 

With  breakfast  over,  and  the  exciting  adventure  re- 
lated, the  feeling  of  gloom  which  hung  over  the  girl 
grew  deeper  and  more  profound.  Coupled  with  it 
was  a  conviction  which  grew  stronger  every  minute 
that  her  lover  was  in  distress,  that  something  had  hap- 
pened to  him,  that  she  must  go  and  help  him.  She 
hated  to  impart  this  to  her  family,  but  after  a  few  more 
minutes  could  conceal  her  feelings  no  longer. 

Suddenly  she  blurted  out:  "Adam  is  in  trouble;  I 
feel  it  in  my  bones;  I  must  go  to  his  aid  at  once." 

Being  the  dominant  personality  in  the  household, 
Eleanor  had  no  difficulty  in  having  one  of  her  brothers 
saddle  the  family  horse,  and  by  herself  she  rode  across 
the  valley  as  rapidly  as  possible.     As  she  crossed  the 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  27 

divide  the  feeling  of  gloom  began  to  dispel  itself,  and 
in  the  late  afternoon  she  arrived  at  the  lone  farmhouse 
where  Adam  resided.  His  parents  were  outside  in 
the  lane  when  she  arrived.  They  looked  pale  and 
anxious.  Almost  before  she  could  speak  to  them  they 
burst  into  lamentations.  It  was  easily  to  be  seen  that 
something  terrible  had  happened,  and  most  probably 
to  Adam. 

"We  were  watching  for  you,"  said  the  mother,  who 
was  the  first  to  recover  her  composure,  "and  we  hoped 
to  the  last  you  would  arrive  in  time." 

"Then  Adam  is  no  more,"  cried  Eleanor,  her  face 
muscles  too  rigid  for  tears. 

"He  passed  away  less  than  an  hour  ago,  after  call- 
ing and  calling  for  you,"  broke  in  the  grief-stricken 
father. 

Eleanor  was  off  her  horse  in  an  instant  and  threw 
her  arms  around  the  unhappy  old  couple.  As  they 
walked  to  the  house  the  parents  alternated  in  describ- 
ing their  son's  unhappy  end.  He  had  gone  out  gaily 
to  hunt  M^ildcats,  after  his  dinner,  the  day  before,  tak- 
ing the  dogs  with  him.  At  nightfall  he  had  not  re- 
turned, but  nothing  was  thought  of  it,  as  he  never  re- 
linquished the  trail  until  victorious.  During  the  night 
the  household  was  aroused  by  the  dogs  barking  and 
howling.  Half  awake,  all  had  thought  that  Adam 
had  returned  and  slipped  into  the  hay-mow  until  morn- 
ing, as  he  had  often  done  before  on  arriving  from  late 
hunts.  In  the  morning  no  signs  were  seen  of  the  young 
man,  but  the  dogs  acted  so  strangely  that  it  was  de- 


28  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

termined  that  something  was  wrong.  The  other  boys 
had  allowed  the  dogs  to  lead  them  across  the  pasture 
fields  into  the  mountains,  and  on  the  summit  over  a  flat 
tableland.  On  the  southerly  boundary  of  this  plateau, 
seven  miles  from  home,  they  had  come  upon  the  young 
hunter  lying  in  the  snow  with  an  ugly  wound  in  his 
side.  He  was  barely  conscious,  but  asked  if  any  one 
had  gone  after  Eleanor.  He  tried  to  describe  how  the 
accident  had  happened.  He  had  located  an  extremely 
large  catamount  on  a  pine  tree  late  the  previous  after- 
noon, and  was  stealing  up  on  it  to  shoot,  when  his  gun 
had  caught  on  a  fallen  tree,  gone  off,  and  shot  him 
grievously.  The  boys  built  a  litter  out  of  hemlock 
poles,  and  making  a  bed  out  of  their  coats,  they  car- 
ried the  wounded  gunner  as  tenderly  as  they  could 
over  the  uneven  country.  They  had  gotten  him  home 
about  an  hour  before,  and  he  lived  less  than  thirty 
minutes  after  being  put  in  his  own  bed.  Up  to  the 
last  he  had  hoped  that  Eleanor  would  come  to  him, 
though  in  his  delirious  moments  he  declared  that  he 
could  see  her.  After  life  was  extinct  the  mother  had 
opened  one  of  the  windows,  and  when  she  looked  out 
was  horrified  to  see  a  large  v/ildcat  running  across  the 
yard.  Before  she  could  give  the  alarm  it  leaped  over 
the  stump  fence  and  disappeared  in  the  brush. 

Eleanor,  with  her  clear  intellect,  saw  many  peculiar 
things  in  this  narrative.  The  dreadful  sensation  of 
gloom  had  come  to  her  about  the  time  the  accident 
occurred.  TTie  night  of  troubled  rest  had  set  in  with 
her  lover  lying  grievously  wounded  on  the  lonely  moun- 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  29 

tain  top.  The  wildcat  in  the  yard  was  the  rede  or 
spirit  of  the  still  living  man,  projected  into  the  wild 
beast,  and  sent  across  the  mountains,  if  not  to  bring 
her  to  him,  to  at  least  give  him  a  last  look  at  her.  The 
sudden  lifting  of  her  despondency  she  timed  at  the 
moment  that  the  young  victim  passed  into  the  beyond. 
The  majesty  and  distinctiveness  of  these  apparitions 
for  a  time  held  back  her  grief.  But  when  she  stood 
beside  the  silent  form  of  her  beloved  she  sank  to  her 
knees,  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

Grief-broken,  she  remained  at  the  Engart  homestead 
until  several  days  after  the  funeral,  when  she  sadly 
wended  her  way  across  the  mountains.  When  she 
entered  her  room  the  first  thing  that  caught  her  eyes 
was  the  volume  of  Tom  Moore's  poems.  It  looked 
to  her  like  the  padlock  to  another  door  of  hope  that 
would  be  forever  more  closed  to  her.  Without  chance 
or  opening,  the  narrow,  stunted  life  of  her  great  soul 
must  go  on,  year  by  year,  with  such  wonderful  oppor- 
tunities across  the  mountains. 


30  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 


III. 
THE  SNOW  IMAGE. 

AN  HISTORICAL  FRAGMENT  FROM  STONE  CREEK. 

WHEN  the  infuriated  settlers  swooped  down  on 
the  Indian  encampment  at  the  head  of  Stone 
Creek,  after  the  murder  of  the  Donnelly  fam- 
ily in  1  111 ^  they  were  at  first  disappointed  to  find  it 
occupied  only  with  women  and  children.  To  wreak 
their  vengeance  on  full-grown  braves  was  more  in  order 
with  the  hate  which  rankled  in  their  bosoms.  But  a 
closer  survey  showed  such  comeliness  among  the  squaws 
and  maidens  that  they  determined  to  outrage  their  sav- 
age foes  by  carrying  the  best  of  their  women  into  cap- 
tivity. A  few  old  hags  who  hurled  earthen  pots  at 
the  invaders  were  knocked  senseless  with  gunstocks,  a 
child  or  two  which  screamed  too  loudly  were  strangled, 
but  the  bulk  of  the  population,  consisting  of  a  half- 
dozen  attractive  looking  Indian  girls,  were  bound  and 
carried  away. 

Such  occurrences  as  these  were  common  enough  in 
Indian  days,  even  though  history  purposely  or  not  fails 
to  record  most  of  them.  And  the  Indian  type  seen 
among  the  Pennsylvania  mountaineers  to  this  day  is 
due  to  marriages  contracted  between  the  white  captors 
and  Indian  women.  It  is  not  due  to  water  and  climate  as 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  31 

a  German  ethnologist  suggested  some  twenty  years  ago. 

All  of  these  captors  were  not  capable  of  conscien- 
tious scruples.  Their  treatment  of  the  Indian  prisoners 
was  neglectful  when  it  was  not  positively  cruel.  Among 
the  raiders  on  the  Indian  village  on  Stone  Creek  was 
a  man  named  Jacob  Nittman.  He  came  from  one 
of  the  eastern  counties,  and  strove  to  emulate  the  career 
of  "Black  Jack"  Schwartz,  the  "Wild  Hunter  of  the 
Juniata."  He  was  as  fierce  looking  as  Black  Jack  had 
been  in  his  palmiest  days,  but  lacked  the  qualities  of 
mind  and  heart  which  made  immortal  the  name  of 
"The  Black  Rifle." 

Doubtless  Jake  Nittman  was  fearless,  but  history 
does  not  record  his  having  participated  in  any  attack 
on  Indian  braves,  a  very  peculiar  circumstance.  But 
he  was  always  in  the  vanguard  at  the  breaking  up  of 
the  Indian  villages  when  the  women  and  children  alone 
"held  the  fort." 

After  the  excitement  had  subsided,  he  found  him- 
self in  possession  of  a  very  beautiful  Indian  maiden  of 
eighteen  summers,  who  was  dubbed  by  the  traders  at 
Standing  Stone  Town  "Crow  Wings,"  because  of  the 
intense  blackness  of  her  hair,  which  she  wore  parted 
in  the  middle.  Nittman  had  his  eye  on  this  girl  for 
some  time  and  had  sought  to  ingratiate  himself  with 
her  when  she  cam.e  to  town  with  her  mother  and 
brothers,  but  she  seemed  to  have  an  instinctive  aversion 
for  him.  Once  he  had  laid  in  wait  for  her  when  she 
had  come  into  the  settlement  alone,  and  had  given  her 
a  piece  of  silk,  which  she  might  use  to  make  a  shoulder 


32  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

cape  or  headdress,  but  she  had  refused  to  accept  it. 
Another  time  when  he  saw  her  looking  wistfully  at  a 
peddler's  store  of  tawdry  jewelry  and  beads,  he  had 
pressed  a  piece  of  money  into  her  hand,  which  she 
dropped  to  the  ground  mechanically,  and  refused  to 
pick  it  up.  A  third  time,  meeting  her  carrying  a  heavy 
load  of  furs  toward  the  town,  he  dismounted  from  his 
horse  and  offered  to  carry  her  load,  and  her  own  sweet 
self  the  balance  of  the  journey.  But  she  shook  her 
pretty  head  so  disdainfully  that  he  felt  his  conquest 
hopeless. 

But  now  to  avenge  the  Donnellys,  a  band  of  fron- 
tiersman, as  unauthorized  as  the  White  Caps  of  later 
days,  had  wrecked  and  pillaged  the  redmens'  village, 
and  made  chattels  out  of  their  women.  Nittman 
was  as  happy  as  a  boy  with  a  new  toy  over  his  new 
possession,  and  gave  several  war  whoops  that  would 
have  done  credit  to  a  savage.  The  victorious  back- 
woodsmen dispersed  in  their  several  directions  leading 
their  captives;  it  was  indeed  a  horrid  sight,  one  over 
which  history  has  done  well  to  drop  a  curtain. 

At  that  time  Nittman  had  a  hunter's  cabin  in  what 
is  known  as  Detwiler's  Hollow,  a  deep  secluded  for- 
ested glen  hidden  in  the  high  mountains  between  Stone 
Valley  and  the  Valley  of  Kishocoquillas.  It  was  in 
a  country  ranged  over  by  Indians,  yet  the  intrepid 
hunter  had  little  fear  of  their  incursions,  now  that  the 
punitive  expedition  had  yielded  up  so  handsom.ely.  It 
was  there  that  Crow  Wings  was  taken,  and  where  she 
almost  grieved  herself  to  death.     In  order  that  she  re- 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  33 

main  with  him,  the  hunter  tied  her  to  a  huge  pine  tree, 
the  ropes  being  twisted  about  her  wrists  and  ankles. 
There  she  had  to  stay  for  days  at  a  time  while  her 
cruel  captor  was  off  on  a  scouting  or  a  hunting  expedi- 
tion. On  one  occasion  she  managed  to  loose  her  bonds 
and  escaped.  As  luck  would  have  it  she  walked  right 
into  Nittman's  presence  that  night  as  he  was  seated 
by  his  burnt-out  campfire. 

To  teach  her  more  caution  in  the  future  he  knocked 
her  senseless  with  the  butt  of  his  rifle,  and  in  the  morn- 
ing, when  she  had  scarcely  revived,  he  threw  her  over 
his  shoulder  like  a  sack  of  flour,  and  carried  her  back 
to  his  fortress  in  Detwiler.  Then  he  bound  her  up 
more  tightly  than  ever,  and  started  off  on  another  ex- 
cursion. 

Among  the  bravest  Indian  fighters  of  that  time  in 
Stone  Valley  was  a  youth  of  seventeen  years  named 
James  McClees.  It  was  he  who  was  so  brutally  mur- 
dered on  the  Houston  farm,  the  year  following,  pre- 
sumably by  Indians — but  renegade  whites  had  a  habit 
of  conveniently  blaming  every  crime  on  the  redmen; 
just  as  equally  renegade  whites  do  to-day  with  the 
Negroes  in  our  Southern  States.  One  day  young  Mc- 
Clees happened  upon  Crow  Wings,  bound  and  help- 
less at  Nittman's  camp.  The  captor  was  absent,  and 
the  young  fellow  was  struck  with  pity  at  the  girl's 
beauty  and  helplessness.  The  girl  had  seen  him  pre- 
viously in  Stone  Town,  and  admired  him,  and  his  un- 
expected appearance  at  her  prison  made  her  hail  him 
as  her  deliverer.     He  would  have  released  her  had  not 


34  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

Nittman  appeared  on  the  scene.  He  accused  the 
youth  of  plotting  to  make  trouble  for  him,  which 
aroused  the  Irish  lad's  temper  to  such  an  extent  that  he 
left  the  camp  in  order  to  keep  from  committing  an  act 
of  violence. 

It  seemed  as  if  all  avenues  of  escape  were  blocked 
by  fate,  and  Crow  Wings  faded  and  wilted  with  an 
abject  grief.  There  was  only  one  chance  left,  she  had 
an  Indian  lover  named  The  Panther,  but  he  had  strayed 
up  to  the  Susquehanna  country,  and  was  at  that  time 
being  pursued  by  the  relentless  Indian  fighter,  Peter 
Grove.  One  night  when  Nittman  was  absent,  a  pack 
of  wolves  surrounded  the  captive  girl,  howling  and 
yelping,  and  could  have  torn  her  to  pieces  had  they 
chose.  Instead  they  tore  down  a  half  of  a  deer  which 
hung  on  a  rack,  fought  over  the  carcass  until  daybreak, 
when  they  disappeared  into  the  forest. 

Crow  Wings  related  her  adventure  to  her  captor 
when  he  returned  the  next  day,  with  the  result  that  he 
left  a  rifle  with  her;  her  arms  being  free  enough  to  use 
it.  She  conceived  the  idea  of  shooting  her  bonds,  thus 
freeing  herself,  but  Nittman  was  never  far  enough 
away  that  he  could  not  hear  the  report  and  return  be- 
fore she  made  good  her  escape.  She  also  plotted  to 
shoot  the  man  if  she  could  catch  him  off  his  guard.  She 
had  been  captured  in  August,  and  winter  set  in  with  no 
avenue  for  escape  yet  available.  She  was  broken- 
hearted, and  resolved  to  starve  herself  to  death.  She 
would  pretend  to  eat,  instead  throwing  the  food  back 
of  her  into  the  underbrush. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  35 

While  Nittman  was  absent  on  one  of  his  hunting 
excursions  he  found  himself  trailed  by  five  Indians. 
He  did  not  want  them  to  locate  his  camp  or  captive,  so 
led  them  far  to  the  north,  eventually  giving  them  the  slip 
in  the  Bare  Meadows.  While  hiding  among  the  rho- 
dodendrons a  terrible  snowstorm,  a  veritable  blizzard, 
set  in.  Nittman,  with  his  giant  strength,  had  to  strive 
his  utmost  to  prevent  being  engulfed.  He  thought  of 
Crow  Wings,  tied  to  a  tree,  with  meager  clothing,  and 
little  to  eat,  braving  the  awful  tempest.  He  would  feel 
sorry  if  the  storm  smothered  her  or  if  she  froze  to  death, 
as  she  was  the  best  looking  Indian  girl  he  had  ever  cap- 
tured, but  his  own  safety  came  first.  Between  his  hid- 
ing place  and  the  trail  into  Detwiler  the  hostile  Indians 
were  lurking.  It  was  three  days  and  nights,  during 
which  time  he  was  so  hungry  he  ate  snow,  that  Nitt- 
man hid  among  the  rhododendron  thickets. 

WTien  he  got  out,  he  returned  to  his  camp  by  a  cir- 
cuitous route,  and  great  was  his  horror  at  what  he  found. 
It  was  a  beautiful  yet  tragical  sight.  The  snows  of  the 
past  four  days  had  drifted  into  the  glade  where  Crow 
Wings  had  been  tied  to  the  giant  pine.  The  drifts  had 
engulfed  her,  she  was  completely  buried  in  a  mass  of 
whiteness.  The  mound  which  covered  her  slender  form 
gave  her  the  appearance  of  a  marble  statue,  or  snow 
image.  Without  examining  to  make  sure  that  she  was 
dead,  the  cowardly  man  fled  from  the  spot  as  fast  as 
he  could  plow  his  way  through  the  drifts.  It  is  said 
that  he  never  stopped  traveling  until  he  reached  Sink- 
ing Creek  Valley,  where  he  lodged  with  a  friendly 


36  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

family    until    the    Tory    outbreak,    which    he   joined. 

Justice,  divine  and  poetic,  was  meted  out  to  him  the 
following  spring,  when  at  Kittanning,  with  Weston, 
he  was  shot  down  by  a  noble  redman.  Captain  Logan, 
son  of  old  Shikellemus. 

James  McClees,  who  was  so  soon  to  die  a  martyr's 
death  at  the  hands  of  the  savages,  discovered  the  dead 
body  of  Crow  Wings,  standing  erect,  still  tied  to  the 
giant  pine.  With  tears  in  his  eyes  he  cut  loose  the  ropes 
and  the  slim,  petite  figure  of  the  beautiful  Indian  girl 
fell  to  the  ground.  Reverently  he  dug  a  grave  at  the 
foot  of  the  old  tree  where  all  that  is  mortal  of  this  vic- 
tim of  white  man's  rapacity  sleeps  her  last  great  sleep. 
But  though  her  body  is  at  rest  and  at  peace,  her  fair 
soul  nurtures  a  grudge,  a  lasting  hate,  that  will  find  no 
appeasement. 

During  the  summer  months  when  Detwiler  fairly 
reverberates  with  the  songs  of  myriads  of  whippoor- 
wills,  and  later  with  the  laments  of  equally  numerous 
katydids,  and  on  the  hillsides  at  midnight  the  raucous 
bark  of  the  grey  fox  is  heard,  the  spirit  of  Crow  Wings 
broods  over  all  silent,  sulky,  and  unsatisfied,  yet  unable 
to  materialize.  But  when  the  autumn  winds  blow,  and 
the  old  trees  creak  and  shake,  and  sometimes  tumble 
down,  and  the  great  homed  owl  voices  his  discontent 
of  things,  then  the  wraith  of  Crow  Wings  begins  to 
take  on  form. 

When  the  first  snow  falls,  and  the  deer  huddle  de- 
jectedly beneath  the  sweeping  boughs  of  the  young 
hemlocks,  and  the  wildcat  is  abroad  stalking  the  wily 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  37 

rabbit,  then  comes  forth  the  shade  of  Crow  Wings  in 
all  its  malevolent  force.  Like  a  great  mist  of  whiteness, 
all-pervading  and  all-absorbing,  she  sweeps  and  eddies 
and  floods  the  glade  through  which  the  trail  into  the 
Seven  Mountains  extends.  It  has  been  a  tale  for  gen- 
erations that  to  be  caught  after  night  on  the  path  across 
Detwiler  during  a  snow  squall  means  death.  It  is  only 
a  joke  to  city  folks,  who  sit  in  their  comfortable  homes 
and  laugh  at  the  as  yet  misunderstood  forces  of  eternity, 
which  they  call  "superstition."  But  the  mountaineers 
do  not  scoff,  even  the  young  ones,  and  they  shun  Det- 
wiler when  the  snow  is  falling. 

It  is  now  about  twenty-one  years  since  the  Snow 
Image,  as  the  backwoodsmen  call  the  spirit  of  Crow 
Wings,  claimed  her  last  victim.  But  she  has  claimed 
one  every  twenty-one  years  or  so  for  a  hundred  and 
twenty-five  years,  consequently  the  list  is  not  a  small 
one,  if  the  old  folks  are  to  be  believed.  There  are  some 
who  assert  that  the  grave  of  Crow  Wings  is  surrounded 
by  half  a  dozen  other  mounds,  victims  who  have  felt 
the  fatal  effects  of  her  frozen  kisses.  But  it  is  a  fact 
that  there  are  many  little  clumps  of  ground  hemlock  in 
the  vicinity,  which  do  resemble  graves. 

It  was  probably  because  of  its  connection  with  so 
many  weird  legends  that  the  young  people  of  the  Kisho- 
coquillas  Valley  and  the  Valley  of  Karoondinha  to  the 
north  always  selected  Detwiler's  Hollow  and  the  adja- 
cent Kettle  as  their  favorite  picnic  grounds.  They 
never  tired  of  revisiting  these  picturesque  spots,  and 
there  was  always  one  in  every  party  who  would  regale 


38  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

them  with  the  quaint  legends  that  had  their  origin  there. 

On  one  particular  picnic,  given  by  some  Sunday- 
school  scholars  from  Tusseyville,  Old  Fort  and  Colyer, 
it  occurred  about  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago,  was  a 
youth  named  James  Ludwick,  and  his  sweetheart, 
Mamie  Carlin.  They  had  plighted  their  troth  under 
the  mammoth  trees  that  forever  kept  the  sun  out  of  the 
Hollow,  and  enjoyed  thereby  the  most  blissful  day  of 
their  existences.  They  were  to  marry  when  the  young 
man  had  saved  enough  to  secure  a  home,  and  the  pros- 
pects seemed  rosy  to  the  two  loving  enthusiasts.  They 
always  liked  to  talk  of  the  eventful  day  when  their  real 
romance  began,  and  the  Hollow  was  to  them  a  storied 
shrine. 

The  young  lover  worked  industriously  at  the  Altoona 
shops  until  his  little  savings  had  grown  to  a  point  when 
marriage  seemed  advisable.  New  Year's  Day  was 
selected  as  the  time  for  the  wedding,  they  wanted  to 
start  the  new  year  right,  they  said.  Ludwick  usually 
rode  by  train  to  Centre  Hall,  but  on  this  occasion  his 
work  having  let  him  off  earlier  than  he  expected,  a 
friendly  engineer  asked  him  to  ride  with  him  in  his  cab 
to  Lewistown  Junction.  There  he  could  take  the  train 
to  Milroy,  where  he  could  always  find  some  one  going 
across  the  mountains.  It  was  a  pleasant  trip,  the  young 
man's  spirits  never  seemed  so  high,  his  hopes  for  the 
future  more  confident.  He  was  laughing  and  joking 
all  the  way  to  the  Junction,  and  in  the  train  up  the  val- 
ley to  Milroy.  It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
before  he  could  find  a  conveyance  going  northward. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  39 

The  mail  stage  had  gone,  and  most  of  the  farmers  re- 
mained at  their  homes  during  the  holiday  season. 

The  young  man  would  have  gladly  "struck  out"  on 
foot,  as  he  had  often  crossed  the  Seven  Brothers  that 
way,  but  he  was  carrying  a  number  of  heavy  bundles 
and  would  like  a  "lift"  part  of  the  route  if  possible. 
He  was  about  going  to  a  livery  stable  and  hiring  a  team 
when  he  heard  a  genial  voice  shouting  "Happy  New 
Year,  Jim."  Looking  around  he  saw  his  old  friend, 
Pat  Gharrity,  the  happy  hermit  of  the  Seven  Moun- 
tains, perched  on  the  driver's  seat  of  a  farm  wagon. 
Ludwick  waited  until  the  wagon  drew  near,  and  in 
response  to  old  Pat's  signal  clambered  aboard  with  his 
bundles. 

The  old  mountaineer  explained  to  him  that  he  had 
been  to  town  with  a  load  of  his  best  potatoes,  and  was 
now  homeward  bound.  While  he  was  not  going  within 
ten  miles  of  the  young  lover's  destination  by  road,  there 
was  what  was  known  to  the  mountaineers  as  a  "short 
cut"  across  the  mountains,  which  would  be  an  easy  trip 
if  the  bundles  could  be  carried  easily.  This  short  cut 
ran  along  the  old  Indian  trail  through  Detwiler's  Hol- 
low, eventually  reaching  the  valley  back  of  Colyer. 
Ludwick  knew  the  way  well,  besides  Detwiler  to  him 
was  hallowed  ground.  He  could  fasten  his  bundles 
tightly  to  a  heavy  pole,  and  swing  it  across  his  brawny 
shoulders;  he  had  made  much  harder  trips.  He  really 
was  anxious  to  go  through  Detwiler  where  his  love 
story  had  begun.  It  would  be  something  to  tell  his 
sweetheart,  who  was  equally  sentimental  on  that  sub- 


40  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

ject.  Before  the  top  of  the  mountain  had  been  gained 
snow  was  falling  heavily.  Old  Pat  said  that  it  looked 
like  a  "young  blizzard."  But  when  the  forks  of  the 
road  were  reached  Ludwick  determined  to  press  on. 
He  knew  every  foot  of  the  way,  and  it  would  save  him 
the  long  walk  westward  through  the  valley  after  reach- 
ing Old  Fort.  Gharrity  wished  him  a  happy  life, 
praised  the  bride,  and  waved  good-bye  as  he  started 
the  heavy  team  up  the  steep  mountain  road. 

Ludwick  cut  a  stout  hickory  pole,  to  which  he 
fastened  his  packages,  and  started  resolutely  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  Indian  trail  across  Detwiler.  He  had 
not  gone  far  before  he  reached  the  original  timber, 
which  at  that  time  covered  the  greater  part  of  the  road 
along  the  Long  Mountain.  The  arching  branches  of 
the  giant  pines  and  oaks  shut  out  the  snow,  and  deceived 
the  young  traveler  as  to  the  severity  of  the  blizzard. 
As  the  forest  grew  denser  Ludwick  could  see  the  tracks 
of  much  game  as  it  crossed  the  road,  the  spoor  of  deer, 
wildcats  and  wild  turkeys.  He  was  just  wishing  that 
he  had  a  gun  when  a  dozen  paces  in  front  of 
him  in  the  middle  of  the  path  stood  a  handsome 
black  fox  in  all  the  richness  of  his  mid-winter  pelage. 
Needless  to  say  Ludwick  wished  more  fervently  for  a 
gun,  as  the  hide  of  that  rare  fox  would  have  paid  the 
expenses  of  a  dozen  wedding  trips.  The  fox  looked  at 
him  with  its  round  brown  eyes,  then  scraped  one  of 
his  forefeet  in  the  snow,  whined  a  little,  and  stalked  off 
into  the  laurel  thickets.  As  the  young  man  passed  on 
he  tried  to  recollect  if  it  was  a  good  or  a  bad  sign  to 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  41 

encounter  a  fox  in  one's  travels.  He  knew  the  old  say- 
ing that  it  was  good  luck  to  meet  with  "a  bear,  a  wolf, 
or  a  stag." 

At  length  he  came  to  a  trail  road  down  the  moun- 
tain, all  choked  with  the  superb  logs  of  original  white 
pine.  In  the  opening  made  by  it  he  realized  the  full 
extent  of  the  snowstorm.  He  had  never  known  it  to 
come  down  with  greater  intensity.  A  raven  perched 
on  a  snow-covered  skidv/ay  croaked  ominously.  It  was 
a  melancholy  scene,  but  he  must  push  on.  Soon  he  was 
descending  the  steep  path  which  led  into  Detwiler.  It 
was  slippery  walking,  and  the  snowstorm  seemed  to 
have  conspired  to  bring  the  night  on  faster.  At  the 
bottom  of  the  dismal  glade  he  noticed  something  that 
looked  like  a  high  mound,  or  rather  cone  of  snow,  at 
the  foot  of  one  of  the  original  pines  which  still  grew 
thick  in  this  hidden  valley.  It  was  so  dark  and  the 
snow  fell  past  his  eyes  so  swiftly  that  he  brushed  it 
away  again  and  again  to  obtain  a  clearer  vision.  He 
could  not  quite  make  it  out,  so  he  left  the  path  and 
began  climbing  over  the  snow-hidden  rocks  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  giant  pine. 

His  pack  became  so  heavy  that  he  laid  it  down,  in- 
tending to  get  it  again  when  he  returned  to  the  trail. 
The  pine  seemed  further  away  than  it  looked  at  first, 
the  snow  seemed  to  be  blinding  him.  As  he  neared  the 
mammoth  tree  he  recognized  it  as  the  one  where  the 
Indian  girl,  Crow  Wings,  had  been  kept  a  prisoner  in 
the  old  days,  the  tree  that  had  been  so  often  pointed 
out  to  him  by  his  old  trapper  friend.  Bill  Johnson.     He 


42  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

then  realized  that  it  was  a  fooHsh  thing  to  be  sight- 
seeing in  such  an  unholy  locality  with  his  destination 
still  nine  or  ten  miles  distant.  He  was  about  to  turn  to 
go  back  to  the  path  with  his  curiosity  unsatisfied,  when 
he  saw  the  snow  cone  move.  As  it  moved  it  assumed 
the  figure  of  a  beautiful  slim  woman.  It  seemed  to 
shine  like  phosphorus  out  through  the  evening  gloom. 
Impelled  by  a  desire  that  was  stronger  than  himself,  he 
moved  forward,  and  as  he  did  so  the  arms  of  the  Snow 
Image  extended  to  greet  him. 

Beautiful  as  appeared  the  apparition,  he  had  no  feel- 
ings of  love  for  it.  He  could  only  think  that  this  would 
be  an  amusing  story  to  relate  to  his  sweetheart  when  he 
was  reunited  with  her  around  the  inglenook  on  the 
headwaters  of  Coffee  Creek.  Raising  his  hickory  pole, 
which  he  was  using  as  a  cane  to  help  him  over  the  un- 
even surface  of  the  glen,  he  struck  at  the  beautiful  ghost. 
He  must  have  hit  it  a  terrific  blow,  for  the  entire  mass 
came  tumbling  into  his  arms.  He  could  feel  the  wet 
snow  on  his  lips,  an  unwelcome  kiss,  the  pressure  of 
snow  like  an  embrace  about  his  shoulders  as  he  fell, 
crushed  under  the  weight  of  the  Snow  Image.  His 
derby  hat  blew  off  and  sunk  into  a  drift.  Sturdy  shop- 
man that  he  was,  he  did  not  lose  his  presence  of  mind, 
and  resolved  to  battle  with  the  ghost  like  he  had  once 
done  with  a  tramp  who  tried  to  blackjack  him  on  a  back 
alley  near  the  yards  in  Altoona.  Keeping  a  grip  on  his 
pole,  he  struck  out  right  and  left,  at  the  same  time  roll- 
ing from  side  to  side.  But  the  more  he  struggled  the 
more  and  heavier  was  the  snow  that  fell  on  him.    And 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  43 

amid  the  roar  of  the  tempest-tossed  trees  he  fancied  he 
heard  the  cruel  tones  of  a  woman's  laughter.     There 
was  no  use  screaming  for  help.     The  nearest  lumber 
camp  was  four  miles  away,  and  its  occupants  were  all 
at  their  homes  celebrating  the  holidaj'^s.    The  lone  pan- 
ther that  had  met  Bill  Johnson  face  to  face  on  a  log 
when  crossing  Hemlock  Run,  and  which  haunted  the 
hollow  for  years,  might  hear  him,  but  he  was  not  sure 
that  the  animal  would  prove  an  ally  in  his  extremity. 
So  he  struggled  bravely,  getting  weaker  every  moment. 
The  heavy  snow  was  piled  on  top  of  him.     He  felt  as 
if   he   was   becoming   new   foundation    for  the   Snow 
Image.    He  began  to  think  of  his  expectant  sweetheart. 
His  hopes  of  ever  seeing  her  again  grew  fainter  and 
fainter.     He  could  not  breathe  easily;  he  was  smother- 
ing to  death.     Then  all  of  a  sudden  came  a  flash  of 
bright  light  in  which  he  saw  his  loved  one's  face  as  in 
an  aureole,  and  his  spirit  passed  into  a  different  sphere. 
And  the  snow  continued  falling  on  him  all  that  night, 
all  the  next  day  and  night,  and  only  abated  a  little  on 
New  Year's  morn,  the  date  of  the  unhappy  man's  in- 
tended marriage.     James  Ludwick's  non-arrival  at  his 
bride's  home  on  the  day  before  New  Year's  was  viewed 
with  some  anxiety.     The  trains  came  and  went,  but  he 
did  not  get  off  of  any  of  them.     He  was  not  among  the 
passengers  leaving  the  mail  stage  at  Old  Fort.      No 
sleigh  containing  him  was  noticed  on  any  of  the  con- 
verging  country    roads.      Mamie   Carlin's   spirit   was 
crushed  when  night  came  on,  and  he  had  not  arrived. 
The  guests  who  had  come  in  a  straw-ride  to  the  remote 


44  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

farmhouse  to  "see  the  New  Year  in"  with  the  bride 
and  groom-to-be,  felt  a  pall  over  them,  and  were  glad 
to  drive  away  at  the  first  chiming  of  the  tall  clock  in  the 
hall.  The  girl  had  a  presentiment  that  all  was  not  well. 
Besides  her  lover  had  promised  to  arrive  not  later  than 
that  morning.  So  she  sat  up  all  night  waiting  for  him 
with  a  lighted  lamp  in  the  window.  But  morning 
dawned,  and  he  had  not  come. 

There  was  no  use  going  over  to  the  church  with  the 
bridegroom  an  absentee.  So  one  of  her  brothers  drove 
to  the  edifice  and  told  the  preacher  and  the  intended 
guests  that  there  would  be  no  ceremony  that  day.  The 
next  morning  telegrams  were  sent  to  Altoona  and  to 
the  missing  youth's  brothers  and  sisters  in  western  States, 
but  none  of  them  knew  of  his  whereabouts. 

When  the  snow  had  abated,  and  the  roads  opened 
sufficiently  Pat  Gharrity  made  a  trip  down  to  Milroy 
as  was  his  wont.  There  he  heard  of  James  Ludwick's 
disappearance,  and  recollected  how  he  had  carried  him 
in  his  wagon  to  the  top  of  the  Long  Mountain.  The 
mystery  was  in  a  measure  solved.  A  searching  party 
went  out,  but  could  find  no  traces  of  the  lost  man  in  the 
snows  which  choked  the  glens  and  hollows  and  oblit- 
erated the  paths. 

It  was  a  long  and  cold  winter,  but  when  the  first 
peeper  was  heard  in  the  deep  marshes  of  Detwiler  late 
in  March,  a  traveler  came  across  a  bulky  bundle  tied 
in  rotted  brown  paper,  and  a  little  further  on  was  a 
battered  black  derby  hat.  Nearby  was  found  the  body 
of  the  lost  lover,  his  hickory  staff  of  ill-fate  in  his  hand. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  45 

IV. 

THE  SHADOW  MAN. 

A  ROMANCE  OF  TUSCAROf^  MOUNTAIN. 

WHERE  the  noble  Tuscarora  Mountain  sweeps 
dowTi  to  the  Juniata,  not  far  from  the  quaint 
old  brown  covered  bridge  that  spans  the  river 
to  Thompsontown  stood  until  lately  a  substantial  look- 
ing farmhouse,  built  of  blocks  of  solid  yellow  sand- 
stone. Erected  in  Colonial  times,  and  with  a  high  roof 
of  slates,  and  tall  chimneys  at  either  end,  it  was  a  good 
example  of  the  type  of  house  that  was  set  up  to  stay,  to 
be  the  foundation  of  a  yeoman  dynasty.  The  splendid 
pioneer  who  erected  it  in  the  midst  of  a  country  still 
harboring  Indians,  a  country  with  an  uncertain  political 
future,  must  have  had  a  supreme  faith  in  the  destiny 
of  his  family  when  he  threw  up  such  solid  foundations. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  charming  scene  which  spread  before 
his  vision  which  led  him  to  locate  there  permanently  at 
any  cost.  For  certainly  no  lovelier  panorama  ever 
pleased  the  eye  of  man. 

The  "Blue  Juniata"  in  those  happy  days  before 
mercenary  manufacturers  polluted  it  with  their  foul 
refuse,  lay  at  the  foot  of  the  sloping  sward,  crystalline 
and  limpid,  reflecting  a  thousand  shadows.  Beyond 
were  rolling  hills,  cleared  land  gradually  replacing  the 


46  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

forests,  culminating  in  ridges  which  all  but  shut  out  the 
majestic  peaks  of  the  Mahantango  Mountain  on  the 
Susquehanna  fifteen  miles  away. 

Along  the  Juniata  in  those  days  flourished  giant  but- 
tonwood  trees,  interspersed  with  wahoos  and  red 
birches.  Wonderful  beds  of  reeds  grew  along  the 
v>^ater's  brink,  affording  hiding  places  for  myriads  of 
water  fowl.  The  wild  swan,  so  loved  by  the  poet 
Drake,  often  "sailed  before  the  storm"  when  the  usu- 
ally calm  waters  were  churned  into  a  choppy  sea  by 
some  sudden  gale.  Great  blue  herons  waded  along  in 
the  shallows  angling  for  frogs,  lizards,  water  snakes, 
and  other  arch  enemies  of  food  fish.  The  brown  bit- 
tern or  "Indian  hen"  crouched  among  the  swaying 
rushes.  Sometimes  the  sky  would  be  darkened  by  the 
flights  of  the  wild  pigeons,  which  seemed  to  rise  like 
a  cloud  out  of  the  topmost  crest  of  distant  Mahantango, 
a  sort  of  columbine  Vesuvius.  And  at  sunset  the  great 
line  of  ruddy  pink  along  the  sky  line  seemed  an  end- 
less infinity  of  color,  so  rich  that  it  must  dye  the  river 
for  all  time  liquid  mother  of  pearl.  And  at  night 
when  the  young  crescent  moon  climbed  over  the  Tus- 
carora  summits,  and  reflected  itself  in  the  calm  waters, 
the  peepers,  the  whippoorwills,  wood  thrushes,  the 
katydids,  the  foxes,  and  the  wolves  greeted  it  with 
musical  incantations  from  the  mountain  heights  by 
seasons. 

It  was  an  ideal  abiding  place,  so  much  so  that  any 
refined  soul  who,  dying,  woke  up  in  such  a  realm 
would  thank  eternity.     Even  when  the  railroad  came. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  47 

and  to  make  room  for  it  the  grassy  paths  where  the 
long-stemmed  violets  grew,  which  led  to  the  river  bank, 
had  to  be  torn  up,  and  many  noble  trees  were  leveled, 
still  enough  of  the  primitive  beauty  remained  to  make 
it  always  linger  in  the  minds  of  appreciative  natures. 

With  such  surroundings  the  natural  sensitiveness  of 
the  ancient  family  who  occupied  the  mansion  for  five 
successive  generations  was  augmented  and  spiritualized. 
With  each  succeeding  generation  a  keener  sense  of  ap- 
preciation was  born,  a  deeper  love  for  the  river  and 
mountain  burned  into  their  souls,  until  finally,  with  the 
son  of  the  fifth  in  line  to  possess  the  old  home,  was  a 
youth  whose  appreciation  and  love  passed  all  bounds 
and  limitations,  for  though  he  was  born  and  grew  up 
amid  the  familiar  scenes  he  never  tired  of  them,  they 
seemed  more  charming  to  him  every  year.  As  his  na- 
ture reached  out  he  grasped  new  beauties,  new  mean- 
ings, new  tones  to  every  oft-viewed  spot,  he  clung  to 
the  manse  as  if  a  seed  that  after  many  peregrinations 
at  the  behest  of  the  vagrant  wind  had  at  last  firmly 
rooted  itself  in  the  soil.  With  the  expansion  of  his 
nature  he  was  always  finding  new  sources  of  beauty 
and  wonderment.  Always  a  lover  of  shadows,  from 
his  earliest  boyhood  days,  when  with  a  candle  held 
aloft  he  could  make  out  countless  forms,  some  hideous, 
some  beautiful,  others  grave  or  gay,  in  the  old  walnut- 
framed  mirror  standing  on  his  dresser,  he  found  even 
stranger  shadows  cast  off  the  grand  old  Tuscarora, 
which  rose  a  thousand  feet  of  arboreal  majesty  a  short 
distance  behind  the  old  stone  house. 


48  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

But  even  before  he  began  climbing  the  mountain, 
and  unraveling  its  secrets,  its  mystery  from  afar 
charmed  him  much.  He  loved  to  watch,  especially  on 
dark  lowery  days,  the  row  of  pines  which  stood  on 
the  comb  or  summit  of  the  mountain,  the  trees  which 
seemed  delegated  to  fight  back  the  oncoming  gusts  of 
wind  which  sought  to  chill  the  valleys. 

There  was  one  gaunt  yellow  pine,  taller  than  the 
rest,  with  which  he  seemed  to  become  personally  ac- 
quainted, a  tree  with  gnarled  trunk,  drooping  top,  and 
long  dark  needles,  a  tree  which  seemed  to  have  a  code 
of  signals  to  flash  to  its  young  admirer.  And  he 
never  forgot  his  ecstasy  when  for  the  first  time  he 
reached  the  summit  of  the  delectable  mountain,  and 
sought  out  and  sat  under  the  shade  of  his  favorite  pine. 
And  as  he  sat  beneath  it  the  ever  mournful  sigh, 
which  never  ceased  even  when  the  winds  fell,  assumed 
a  happier  tone,  only  to  resume  the  banshee-like  wail- 
ing when  he  departed.  Year  by  year  he  would  be 
pained  to  see  the  dearly  beloved  pines  struck  by  light- 
ning one  by  one,  and  in  a  twelvemonth  become  grim, 
barkless  skeletons,  pointing  toward  the  heavens  with 
impotent  menacing  arms  until  the  north  wind  would 
take  them  in  strong  arms  and  crooning  a  requiem  drop 
them  softly  to  their  last  resting  place  among  the  sweet 
ferns  and  whortleberry  bushes.  And  the  pines  which 
escaped  the  lightning  strokes,  even  the  favored  pine, 
were  sorely  ravaged  by  the  forest  fires,  which  in  the 
springtime,  when  the  sap  was  ascending,  crept  up  their 
delicate  trunks  and  scorched  the  life  out  of  their  most 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  49 

vital  spots.  Some  sent  out  fresh  growths  of  bright 
green  needles  as  if  defying  cruel  fate,  but  every  one 
touched  by  the  horrid  flames  had  its  life  shortened,  and 
cried  itself  into  nakedness  and  death. 

But  transcending  even  the  pines,  the  glory  of  the 
mountain  top,  was  the  privilege  of  studying  the 
shadows  which  were  cast  by  the  vast  height  upon  the 
river  and  over  the  rolling  meadows  and  woods.  These 
shadows  had  life  and  form,  and  every  one  a  different 
meaning.  At  first  they  had  seemed  to  the  young 
mountaineer  fantastic  gloom,  yet  fascinating  withal. 
But  as  he  watched  them  again  and  yet  again,  they  took 
on  shape — yes,  life.  They  always  came  at  a  certain 
time,  each  one  in  its  respective  place,  and  gradually 
their  panorcima  spelled  into  the  youth's  mind  the  ancient 
annals  of  the  valley  where  he  lived. 

There  v/ere  first  of  all  the  shadows  of  earliest  after- 
noon, which  pictured  the  titanic  beasts  and  flying  rep- 
tiles, the  fern  trees,  calamites  and  lepidodendrons  of 
the  prehistoric  days  in  that  fair  land  before  him.  Then 
came  shadows  of  mid-afternoon,  the  shapes  of  primi- 
tive, savage  men,  restless  and  unstable  as  the  sea.  As 
these  shadows  lengthened  into  late  afternoon,  all  pic- 
tured on  the  meadow  slopes  were  tall  Indians,  with 
bows  and  spears,  and  tents  and  lodge  houses,  which 
faded  as  Indians  always  did.  There  were  forms  of 
panthers,  bison,  moose  and  elks,  the  bmtes  which  con- 
tested the  forest  realms  with  their  redskin  contempo- 
raries. Of  the  evening  shadows  some  streaked  out  into 
tall  groves  of  pine,  beech  and  hem.lock,  which  as  night 


50  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

fell  broadened  and  deepened,  and  were  the  back- 
ground to  some  of  the  strangest  photo-plays  ever  en- 
acted. Many  were  the  wonderful  dramas  portrayed 
by  the  evening  shadows.  Full  of  form  and  power  they 
were,  replicas  surely  of  the  life  that  had  ebbed  in  that 
God-favored  realm.  No  artist's  brush  or  poet's  pen 
could  tell  the  simple  stones  as  those  dark  shadows  acted 
them  out. 

On  one  clear  September  night  an  Indian  camp- 
ground was  depicted  on  the  sloping  bosom  of  the  river 
and  dale.  An  old  warrior  sat  by  a  camp-fire,  smoking 
his  calumet,  while  the  squaw  busied  herself  about  the 
tent,  and  the  children,  four  slim  boys,  and  one  beautiful 
little  girl,  chased  one  another  about  as  only  shadow 
children  can.  It  was  a  scene  of  rare  activity  and 
beauty,  so  much  so  that  the  living  watcher  wished  that 
he  could  cross  the  void.  Suddenly  like  waving  black 
plumes  an  attacking  force  plunged  into  the  peaceful 
family  group.  Striking  great  sweeping  strokes  with 
tomahawks  and  v/ar-clubs,  they  seemed  to  rout  the 
hom.e-loving  warrior  and  his  spouse.  Picking  up  the 
lovely  little  maiden  they  sped  away  with  her  into  the 
shadow  realms,  v/here  the  darkness  grew  vaster  and 
more  engulfing.  Then  the  warrior,  who  had  evidently 
only  been  stunned,  rose  unsteadily,  and  tremblingly  his 
squaw  came  to  his  side,  and  with  shadowy  gestures, 
they  lamented  over  the  loss  of  their  loved  one.  The 
boys,  who  had  flown  in  terror  to  the  gloom  of  the 
shadowy  pine  forests  came  back  swaying  like  reeds 
and  swept  about  their  stricken  parents,  offering  shadowy 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  51 

consolation.  Then  the  brave  and  his  four  sons  drifted 
away  off  on  the  war-path,  which  turned  and  twisted 
among  the  shadowy  realms  of  infinity.  Through  long 
dark  vistas  of  shaking  pines  the  determined  warrior  led 
his  boys.  Back  at  the  camp  the  unhappy  mother  sank 
to  the  dark  earth,  burying  her  head  in  her  endless 
blanket. 

Another  encampment  came  to  view,  dark  and 
shadowy.  Scores  of  great  gaunt  Indians  lay  about 
a  fluttering  campfire,  fast  asleep.  Sitting  among  them 
was  the  tiny  dark  form  of  the  stolen  child,  nodding 
with  grief.  A  tall  sentry  paced  to  and  fro,  unstable 
as  a  leaf,  a  thing  of  shadows  and  uncertainty.  At 
the  edge  of  the  gloomy  forest  the  warrior  and  his  sons 
hesitated.  They  raised  their  shadov/y  tomahawks, 
sweeping  on  like  shadows  do,  they  were  upon  the  sen- 
try, sending  him  sprawling  to  the  ground.  In  an  in- 
stant, a  shadowy  moment,  they  had  surrounded  the 
unhappy  child.  The  warrior  parent  wrapped  her  in  his 
shadov/y  cloak,  and  crept  v/ith  her  to  the  dark  forest, 
where  the  shadows  seemed  marshaling  themselves  for 
complete  union  with  night. 

On  through  the  growing  duskiness  they  sped,  flying 
shadows,  over  shadowy  mountains,  rocks,  rivers  and 
sinking  seas,  back  to  that  secluded  dismal  spot  where 
in  deep  grief  still  crouched  the  shadowy  form  of  the 
unhappy  squaw.  Sweeping  down  before  her,  a 
triumph  of  shadowy  might,  the  great  slim  warrior  un- 
folded his  flowing  cloak,  and  out  slipped  the  little  girl 
restored  to  those  she  loved.     And  the  Indian  family 


52  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

came  closer  together,  their  vast  cloaks  sweeping  and 
trailing  until  all  the  shadows  seemed  to  unite  in  them, 
and  there  was  nothing  else  but  the  dark  tones  of  their 
garments.  All  was  blackness,  immensity,  night  had 
fallen  on  their  happiness.  They  were  one,  at  peace 
with  all  the  sable  harmonies  of  nature's  period  of  rest. 

Then  the  tranquil  stars  came  out  as  a  theater  lights 
up  after  shadow  pictures,  seeming  near  to  the  seeker 
after  elemental  truths  on  the  mountain  top,  and  he  de- 
scended in  the  cool  evening.  On  his  way  he  scared 
up  a  wobbly-flighted  whippoorwill  here  and  there, 
which  flew  straight  at  the  stars,  and  in  the  distance  be- 
lated crows  were  cawing,  as  they  settled  down  to  roost. 
And  the  rare  mountain  flowers  he  accidentally  trampled 
on  the  way,  the  doleful  notes  of  autumn  crickets  inter- 
rupted, the  sweet  flying  scents  of  pine  or  fern,  would 
make  a  perfect  memory  book.  It  was  a  glorious  exist- 
ence, this  intense  life  close  to  the  past  in  all  its  pic- 
torial wonder. 

But  in  other  ways  he  was  not  idle,  a  busy  world 
called  him  as  he  developed  to  meet  its  wants,  and 
though  the  part  he  played  was  not  great,  it  cannot  be 
said  that  it  was  useless.  But  such  a  life  had  its  limita- 
tions of  utility,  the  grandeur  and  glory  of  it  all  would 
best  be  seen  in  perspective.  But  fate  would  have  to 
open  the  gate  of  such  an  Earthly  Paradise,  mere  mor- 
tals would  blunder  out  if  unescorted,  and  perhaps  lose 
the  pass  word  to  return.  And  that  was  why  that  the 
young  man,  loving  the  shadow-realm  so  well,  instinc- 
tively hated  to  go  far  from  it.     Every  time  he  went 


o 

< 

X 

a: 

Ui 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  53 

away,  even  when  fancying  that  his  quests  were  of  im- 
portance, he  was  filled  with  a  strange  yearning  to  re- 
turn, it  was  so  deep-rooted  in  his  being  that  he  had  to 
answer  its  call.  He  was  waiting  for  a  message  that 
would  carry  him  afar  to  come  out  of  the  land  of 
shadows  itself,  that  was  still  of  the  life  he  loved  best, 
but  over  trackless  roads  or  oceans. 

The  call  did  come  to  him  very  unexpectedly.  It  was 
late  on  a  summer  afternoon,  after  he  had  returned  from 
the  heights,  communing  with  his  best-loved  pines  that 
still  survived,  and  mourning  over  the  prostrate  forms 
of  their  fallen  comrades,  it  was  a  grey  evening  when 
everything  was  shadow,  hence  hinted  of  uncertainty, 
and  he  was  in  a  mood  that  was  almost  a  reverie. 

Lying  on  a  couch,  with  hands  behind  his  head,  he 
instinctively  began  listening  to  the  tick-tock-tick  of  a 
gilt  French  clock,  one  of  the  heirlooms  of  the  old 
house,  which  stood  on  the  high  mantel  shelf  of  the 
bookish-smelling  library.  The  tick-tock-tick  was  so 
emphatic,  it  was  like  the  wing  music  of  birds,  it  fairly 
carried  the  listener  out  of  himself.  The  couch  seemed 
some  chariot  that  sailed  out  of  time  into  a  new  world. 
It  was  as  if  the  chariot  carried  him  very  far,  as  it  could 
do  so  when  not  hampered  by  time.  Upon  his  spirit 
came  a  vast  calm,  he  was  in  that  state  of  tranquility 
when  one  can  see  ghosts.  All  of  us  who  think  and  feel 
have  infrequently  or  frequently,  as  our  natures  are  at- 
tuned to  the  Infinite,  felt  that  strange  peace  which  pre- 
sages visitation.  If  uninterrupted,  the  visitor  from  the 
unseen  will  come  either  as  a  voice  or  a  presence,  but  a 


54  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

sudden  incursion  of  outside  influences  will  drive  this 
state  away. 

But  as  the  mood  progressed  the  young  man  noted 
that  a  marked  change  came  in  the  dimensions  of  the 
room  where  he  rested.  The  small  windows,  v/ith  the 
wide  sills — the  walls  were  four  feet  thick — widened 
and  elongated  into  glass  doors  which  led  out  on  a  flag- 
stone terrace,  with  scenery  beyond  that  was  totally 
unfamiliar.  The  distant  vistas  showed  broad  fields 
lined  with  tall  Lombardy  poplars,  with  blue  dome-like 
hills  fading  into  the  sky-line.  The  massive  walnut  fur- 
niture contracted  and  twisted  itself  into  a  gilt  set  of 
the  period  of  the  last  of  Louis'  to  match  the  clock. 
The  old  deep  fireplace,  with  its  wooden  facings  and 
mantel  shelf  resolved  itself  into  an  ornate  open  grate 
of  greenish  marble  with  a  gilt  framed  mirror  above. 
Instead  of  the  heavy  brass  candlesticks,  elaborate  gilt 
candelabra  arose  on  either  side  of  the  French  clock, 
giving  it  an  air  of  harmony  that  it  seemed  always  to 
have  lacked.  There  appeared  to  be  more  rooms  in 
this  dream  house  than  the  one  he  was  used  to. 

Though  lying  still  he  had  the  power  to  gaze  into  the 
other  apartments.  Beyond  two  huge  gilded  doors  was 
a  spacious  hallway  with  white  marble  floors,  and  a 
staircase  of  marble  with  bronze  railings.  There  was 
stained  glass  in  the  massive  front  doors,  on  the  sides  of 
the  front  steps  were  griffins  carved  out  of  limestone, 
which  held  aloft  fluted  metallic  lamps.  On  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  hallway  was  a  high-walled  library, 
with  rows  of  bookcases  which  reached  almost  to  the 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  55 

frescoed  ceiling.  On  the  tops  of  the  cases  were  tar- 
nished busts  of  such  great  men  as  Seneca,  Lucretius, 
Terrence  and  Catullus.  In  the  center  of  the  room,  by 
another  vast  fireplace,  was  a  huge  writing  table  cov- 
ered with  richly  bound  but  much-used  books  and  man- 
uscripts. Back  of  the  library,  that  thrilled  the  young 
man  with  its  wealth  of  all  that  appeals  to  bookish 
tastes,  was  a  room  that  m.ust  have  been  an  armory. 

It  had  a  huge  greyish  stone  fireplace,  and  cases  all 
around  the  walls,  not  so  high  as  in  the  library;  these 
cases  were  stacked  with  guns  old  and  new,  of  every 
shape  and  style,  from  the  latest  American  rifle  to  the 
bow-gun  of  the  middle  ages.  On  the  stone  floor,  near 
the  fireplace  stood  a  mounted  wolf,  more  brindle  than 
the  black  wolves  of  the  Seven  Mountains  or  the  grey 
timber  wolves  of  the  ranges  south  of  the  Tuscaroras. 
With  jaws  open,  showing  rows  of  fierce  white  fangs, 
it  was  like  the  wolf  killed  by  the  fabled  hound,  Gelert, 
"tremendous  still  in  death."  On  the  curiously  wrought 
fagade  of  the  fireplace  was  nailed  a  mounted  head  of 
a  wild  boar,  a  grand  vieux  sanglier,  a  beast  with 
hideous  curving  tusks  and  swarthy  crest.  Above  the 
cases  was  row  after  row  of  horns  of  fallow  deer,  the 
smooth  palmated  antlers  resembling  the  rare  "shovel 
horns"  of  the  Seven  Brothers.  Above  these  began  the 
elaborate  carved  rafters.  From  some  of  these  hung 
stags'  horns  holding  lamps,  which  gave  a  mediaeval 
flavor  to  this  unique  room.  And  in  the  furthest  and 
darkest  corner,  the  mailed  hand  gripping  a  broad- 
sword,   was    a    much-rusted    suit    of    arms,    the  visor 


56  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

down,  hiding,  perhaps,  the  white  ghost  face  within. 

But  it  was  gradually  growing  darker,  gloaming  was 
giving  way  to  dusk,  that  finest  of  evening  distinctions, 
which  only  a  lover  of  shadows  can  know.  It  was  time 
for  candles,  for  some  one  to  light  the  fires.  The  smooth 
beech  logs  piled  so  carefully  in  the  grates,  seemed,  to 
invite  the  friendly  blaze.  There  was  a  chilliness,  a 
mustiness  to  these  old  rooms  that  could  only  be  lessened 
by  human  company  in  lieu  of  candle  light  or  fire-glow. 
Some  one  would  surely  come,  the  very  neatness  of 
everything  showed  that  the  mansion  was  inhabited. 

As  he  waited,  he  gazed  into  the  long  mirrors  which 
hung  between  the  windows,  hoping  that  they  would 
catch  the  shadow  of  whoever  might  come.  The  love 
of  shadows  had  gone  with  him  into  this  unreal  land. 
Perhaps  he  was  in  "the  valley  of  the  shadow." 

And  out  of  the  silences,  on  the  marble  floor  of  a 
room  beyond  where  he  lay,  came  the  sharp  small  sound 
of  feminine  footsteps.  Expectantly  he  waited,  but  not 
for  long.  He  turned  his  head  around  and  in  the 
shadows  he  saw  her.  Beautiful  she  was,  but  though 
she  seemed  familiar,  he  could  not  recollect  when,  he 
had  seen  her  before.  Perhaps  it  was  because  he  had 
never  met  her  before  in  that  particular  corner  of  the 
world.  Yet  she  seemed  so  strangely  familiar!  It  was  as 
if  he  had  known  her  for  years,  yet  he  failed  to  place 
her.  She  was  carrying  a  burning  taper  to  light  a  gilt 
lamp  with  a  silver  lace  shade,  and  as  she  noticed  him 
lying  there  on  the  divan,  not  a  look  of  surprise  as  might 
be  expected  came  across  her  mobile  features.     It  was 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  57 

as  if  she  had  stepped  out  but  a  few  moments  before 
and  returned  in  a  matter-of-fact  way  to  light  the  lamp. 

As  she  placed  it  on  the  glass-topped  table  which 
stood  between  the  fireplace  and  the  lounge,  he  scruti- 
nized her  carefully.  She  looked  just  as  she  always 
had,  but  where  was  it  that  he  had  seen  her  before,  it 
would  be  too  difficult  a  matter  to  adjust,  he  would  for- 
get the  shadowy  part  and  lose  himself  in  admiration. 
For  indeed  she  was  admirable  to  look  at.  A  few  years 
younger  than  himself,  close  to  twenty  she  appeared  to 
be,  with  curling  brown  hair,  and  eyes  that  in  the  shad- 
ows were  black,  and  by  the  lamplight  grey,  with  skin 
more  pale  than  rosy,  a  semi-retrousse  nose,  full  lips,  a 
rounded  throat  and  arms  and  figure,  she  was  an  em- 
bodiment of  grace  and  charm. 

To  be  on  such  intimate  terms  with  such  an  adorable 
person,  yet  not  recollect  who  she  was,  was  an  amazing 
predicament,  it  was  so  shadowy,  yet  so  delightful.  If 
he  spoke  to  her,  she  would  vanish,  and  the  grand  old 
house  go  with  her,  for  ghosts  must  speak  first.  Could 
this  all  be  a  chapter  from  some  past  existence,  in  some 
topsy-turvy  whim  of  time.  It  seemed  like  reading  over 
again  an  early  chapter  in  some  interesting  book  before 
the  final  chapter  had  been  reached.  All  these  reflec- 
tions were  naturally  simultaneous,  in  a  realm  where 
there  is  no  time.  As  he  pondered,  the  beautiful  young 
girl  turned  toward  him  and  spoke,  saying : 

"What  a  wonderful  evening  this  is.  Come,  let  us 
go  out  on  the  terrace  before  all  the  shadows  have 
gone." 


58  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

To  speak  was  to  command,  and  entranced  and  happy 
the  young  man  got  up  and  taking  her  fair  hand,  for  he 
knew  her  well,  even  if  he  could  not  ''place  her"  tem- 
porarily, walked  with  her  to  one  of  the  long  windows, 
which  opened  like  a  door.  Soon  they  were  outdoors 
in  the  cool  evening  air,  with  a  glorious  yet  foreign  land- 
scape before  them. 

"It  is  too  late  to  catch  only  the  last  grand  shadow 
effects,"  said  the  young  girl,  who  seemed  to  know  as 
much  about  shadows  as  him.self.  "An  hour  ago  a 
shadowy  pageant  went  by,  I  thought  of  you  traveling 
on  the  long  road." 

So  he  had  come  there  by  the  road,  and  not  over  the 
clouds ;  he  had  journeyed  there  like  any  one  else  would 
have  come. 

"This  last  shadow  looks  like  a  great  marching 
army,"  she  went  on,  "but  earlier  we  had  the  wild 
beasts  and  hunters,  and  priests  and  monks  and  farmers 
and  v/agons,  then  a  long  line  of  kings." 

Such  royal  shadows,  he  mused,  could  not  exist  on 
the  Juniata.  He  was  evidently  in  some  strange  coun- 
try. But  everywhere  shadows  must  fade,  kings  as  well 
as  Indians.  But  as  the  gloom  of  night  overspread  the 
scene,  the  shadowy  armies  with  their  flags  and  gonfa- 
lons were  merged  into  evening  calm  and  peace.  He 
again  scanned  the  wide  landscape.  Off  in  the  west 
he  could  see  the  twin  spires  of  some  ancient  cathedral 
with  a  city  below  it.  The  spires  reminded  him  of  the 
twin  pines  that  stood  to  the  westward  from  his  Juniata 
home.     Could  these  trees  be  the  shadows  or  symbols 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  59 

of  an  old-time  church,  the  river  the  shadow  of  a  worn- 
out  disappearing  town? 

These  questions  might  have  been  answered,  had  not 
night  fell  so  soon.  Then  the  beautiful  girl  turned  from 
the  darkening  view,  and  led  her  companion  from  the 
terrace  by  a  side  staircase  and  along  a  pebbled  path 
which  led  through  a  grove  of  Norway  spruces,  with 
branches  that  swept  the  ground,  like  the  spruces  of 
hairbrook  where  he  had  visited  as  a  boy,  until  they 
came  to  a  high  stone  courtyard,  which  surrounded  some 
stables.  Inside  the  gateway  several  large  shaggy  grey 
dogs  were  chained,  which  leaped  to  the  length  of 
their  chains,  stood  on  their  hind  feet  and  barked  vocif- 
erously. These  were  wolf  dogs,  the  young  man  was 
given  to  understand.  Despite  the  thickly  settled  coun- 
try, the  wolves,  she  said,  v/ere  still  to  be  found,  afford- 
ing superb  sport  for  hunters  and  dogs.  Inside  the 
stables  were  roomy  box-stalls,  each  one  accommodat- 
ing a  hunter  or  a  race  horse,  some  of  them  retired  heroes 
of  cross  country  classics. 

When  she  saw  his  evident  gratification  at  all  the 
wonders  of  the  barns  and  stables,  she  gently  said,  "I 
am  so  glad  that  I  wrote  you  to  come,  it  was  the  proper 
inspiration  to  have  done  so." 

The  young  man  made  no  reply,  as  he  was  trying  to 
figure  out  if  he  had  received  any  such  letter.  But  all 
was  shadowy,  foggy,  as  far  as  such  a  letter  was  con- 
cerned. 

Then  they  strolled  back,  toward  the  old  house,  with 
its  deep  slanting  roof  and  pilaster  chimneys,  and  leaned 


60  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

a  while  over  the  parapet  of  the  terrace,  watching  the 
stars  that  shone  out  as  clear  as  if  it  had  been  a  night 
in  October.  There  was  one  star  which  seemed  to  hang 
between  the  twin  towers  of  the  distant  cathedral.  When 
they  re-entered  the  house  by  the  same  loggia  window, 
the  lamp  had  gone  out,  the  room  was  very  dark,  the 
young  man  remembered  that  the  girl  shuddered  as  they 
closed  the  door.  All  was  dark  and  shadowy  in  the 
house,  as  silent  as  the  grave.  Then  the  clock  chimed 
the  quarter  hour.  How  ghastly  would  the  stuffed  wolf 
and  the  rusty  suit  of  arms  look  at  that  hour. 

The  young  man  groped  for  the  table,  when  he  felt 
it,  the  top  was  marble  not  glass.  He  looked  more 
clearly,  the  stars  were  shining  through  small  deep-set 
windows,  the  clock  was  on  the  wooden  mantelpiece, 
ticking  away  to  two  stiff  colonial  candlesticks.  Of 
course  the  lovely  girl  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Some- 
how the  young  man  was  seated  on  the  couch  again. 
He  had  not  been  asleep,  only  in  the  world  of  shadows 
where  everything  is  so  different,  where  the  non-essential 
is  banished. 

He  got  up  and  soon  found  the  matches,  lighting  the 
old  lamp  which  sat  on  the  table  with  the  marble  top. 
The  clock  on  the  mantel,  ticking  away  to  eternity,  an- 
nounced the  hour  as  ten  minutes  to  seven.  It  was  not 
late,  only  shadowy.  It  was  the  solemn  dusk  that  pre- 
sages an  early  autumn.  He  looked  about  the  room, 
everything  was  familiar,  just  as  he  had  always  known 
it,  just  as  he  had  left  everything,  except  that  on  the 
center  table  was  an  envelope  addressed  to  himself.     It 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  61 

had  not  been  there  when  he  lay  down.  Perhaps  the 
person  who  came  in  to  Hght  the  lamp  had  placed  it 
there.  He  looked  at  it  closely;  it  bore  a  foreign  stamp; 
the  bold  handwriting  familiar,  though  he  had  not  seen 
it  in  some  time.  Like  a  flash  of  lightning  he  recognized 
it  as  the  writing  of  the  charming  girl  who  had  lately 
been  with  him  in  the  shadowy  land,  yet  when  he  had 
been  with  her  there  he  was  unable  to  place  her. 

He  did  not  open  the  letter  right  away.  He  must 
formulate  a  plan  of  action  first.  The  shadowy  presence 
had  lately  felt  it  was  but  the  visualization  of  his  long- 
ing. How  to  get  away,  to  get  started  to  her  that  very 
night  was  his  one  idea.  To  "go  over  the  mountains  of 
the  moon."  The  shadows  that  had  hung  over  him  were 
suddenly  lifted,  and  out  through  the  bright  vista  he  saw 
the  completeness  of  life  like  the  star  suspended  between 
the  cathedral  towers. 


62  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 


V. 

THE  WOLF  TRIBE. 

AN  INDIAN  TRADITION  OF  THE  JUNIATA. 

ESHLEMAN,  in  his  "History  of  the  Indians  of 
Lancaster  County,"  in  speaking  of  the  Lenni- 
Lenape,  the  "original  people"  of  the  Indians, 
says  that  "according  to  their  own  story  when  they  be- 
came established  in  what  is  now  the  Eastern  States  they 
divided  themselves  into  three  tribes — the  Turtle,  the 
Turkey,  and  the  Wolf  Tribe.  The  first  two  settled 
on  the  coast  from  the  Hudson  to  Potomac  Rivers.  The 
other,  the  Wolf  Tribe,  settled  inland  on  the  Susque- 
hanna, because  they  were  warlike  and  formed  a  barrier 
between  the  coast  tribes  of  the  Lenape  and  the  Mengwe 
on  the  west,  who  had  become  enemies  of  all  Lenape 
by  this  time.  The  Susquehannocks,  Nanticokes,  the 
Shackamaxons,  the  Shawnees  and  several  other  tribes, 
it  is  said,  came  from  the  Wolf  Tribe  of  the  Lenape." 

Job  Chillaway,  by  race  a  Lenni-Lenape,  and  a 
noted  Indian  in  colonial  history,  about  1 768  settled 
in  the  Juniata  Valley,  first  at  the  mouth  of  the  Little 
Tuniata;  but  as  soon  as  settlements  were  made  by  the 
whites,  moved  up  Spruce  Creek,  where  he  remained 
until  white  men  penetrated  there,  when  he  removed  to 
the  head  of  Diamond  Valley,  where  he  spent  the  re- 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  63 

mainder  of  his  days.  He  supported  himself  for  many 
years  after  the  Revolutionary  War  by  bringing  deer 
and  elk  meat  into  the  settlements  to  trade  off  for  flour 
and  bread.  During  a  cold  winter,  about  1 800,  he  was 
found  dead  in  his  cabin  by  some  bear  hunters.  He 
was  supposed  to  be  about  one  hundred  years  old  at  the 
time  of  his  demise. 

A  great  story-teller,  his  mind  being  a  treasure  house 
of  historic  and  legendary  lore,  his  company  was  sought 
by  the  more  intelligent  settlers  to  while  away  the  long 
winter  evenings  with  tales  of  the  long  ago.  He  was 
particularly  fond  of  telling  about  the  earliest  days  of 
the  Indian  people,  especially  of  his  own  Wolf  Tribe 
of  the  Lenni-Lenape.  This  would  carry  the  Indians' 
beginnings  back  many  thousands  of  years,  giving  them 
a  history  as  ancient  and  honorable  as  that  of  Celt  or 
Saxon.  He  was  fond  of  explaining  his  reasons  for 
never  hunting  wolves,  that  these  animals  were  sacred  to 
his  race,  that  only  thoughtless  or  heedless  Indians  went 
on  the  warpath  against  them.  The  superstition  that 
wolves  were  harmful  beasts  had  been  brought  into 
Pennsylvania  by  the  Europeans,  who  by  creating  a  de- 
mand for  hides  and  placing  a  bounty  on  the  scalps  of 
wolves,  had  set  the  idle  and  more  worthless  Indians  to 
v/olf  hunting,  and  in  another  generation  practically 
every  redman  had  forgotten  his  family  tradition  in  the 
lust  for  gain.  But  Job  Chillaway  was  what  might  be 
called  an  orthodox  or  old-line  Indian.  He  believed 
in  abiding  by  the  ancient  landmarks  which  had  led  his 
race  to  greatness  in  the  past.     He  had  examples  on  all 


64  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

sides  to  show  the  quick  disintegration  of  tribal  power 
and  physical  and  moral  prowess  with  the  adopting  of 
the  white  man's  ways.  The  surest  method  of  conquer- 
ing the  Indians  was  debauching  them  morally.  They 
could  not  absorb  the  new  habits,  even  the  new  religion 
of  the  pale  faced  strangers;  they  strangled  on  the  inno- 
vations, dying  out  faster  than  even  bullets  laid  them 
low. 

Had  all  Indians  been  like  Chillaway,  and  his  even 
greater  confrere  Red  Jacket,  the  Indian  race  would  be 
a  force  to  reckon  with  to  this  day.  Red  Jacket  resisted 
the  forcible  selling  of  land,  the  new  religion,  the  new 
modes  of  life;  he  remained  an  unreconstructed  rebel  to 
the  end.  And  to  a  lesser  degree  Chillaway  held  to  his 
old  faith,  his  old  ways,  and  when  far  up  in  the  nineties 
could  shoot  as  straight  as  any  youth  among  the  whites. 
The  great  age  attained  by  the  Indians  of  past  genera- 
tions has  been  disputed  by  the  fact  that  most  Indians 
of  to-day  are  short  lived,  but  before  the  vices  introduced 
by  white  men  enervated  them,  Indians  living  their  simple 
outdoor  life  were  almost  indestructible  human  ma- 
chines. The  Indian  owed  his  decline  to  the  white  man 
and  to  him  alone,  and  if  we  blame  him  for  sins,  let  us 
first  blame  the  white  men  who  were  the  serpents  in  his 
garden  of  Eden,  the  primeval  forests  of  America. 

When  Job  Chillaway  talked  of  the  past,  he  always 
asked  for  a  wolfskin  rug,  which  he  would  spread  out 
on  the  earthen  floor  before  the  huge  fireplace,  then  sit 
down  tailor-fashion,  and  with  a  wealth  of  gestures  that 
were  almost  European,  recount  the  romances  of  the 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  65 

Golden  Age  of  the  Indian  race.  As  an  evidence  of  his 
mind's  fecundity,  he  never  told  the  same  story  twice. 
If  it  fell  on  a  band  of  unappreciative  listeners  it  was  lost 
forever.  But  it  must  be  stated  that  Chillaway  was 
careful  in  his  choice  of  an  audience ;  he  would  suddenly 
become  silent  if  his  hearers  were  out  of  accord  with 
him.  It  is  therefore  fortunate  that  his  version  of  the 
selection  of  the  name  for  the  Wolf  Tribe  fell  on  ears 
that  were  "wax  to  receive,  marble  to  retain." 

It  appears  that  a  very  long  time  ago,  when  the  w  orld 
was  new,  and  the  Indians  were  the  chosen  people  of 
the  Great  Spirit,  there  was  a  certain  great  chief  or  king 
named  Se-Tan-Se-Tan,  whose  regal  abode  was  near 
the  headwaters  of  the  Little  Juniata.  His  was  a 
mighty  and  forceful  personality,  for  he  cemented  to- 
gether into  a  powerful  confederation  individual  families 
of  redmen,  who  had  led  aimless  lives  hunting  and  fish- 
ing among  the  wild  mountains.  This  had  never  been 
done  before,  and  when  the  savages  realized  the  benefits 
of  a  common  interest  as  compared  with  the  hopeless 
struggling  and  anarchy  of  the  past,  they  blessed  the  far- 
seeing  warrior  who  made  this  new  state  possible.  As 
he  was  the  first  successful  man  they  regarded  him  more 
as  a  being  apart  from  themselves,  a  demi-god,  rather 
than  to  cherish  toward  him  any  sentiments  of  jealousy 
or  envy.  And  it  was  probably  the  same  with  new- 
found leaders  all  over  the  world. 

Se-Tan-Se-Tan,  wise  leader  that  he  was,  did  not 
abuse  his  boundless  power.  He  exercised  it  at  all  times 
for  the  betterment,  for  the  development  of  his  subjects. 


66  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

He  encouraged  agriculture  as  more  steadily  remunera- 
tive than  the  chase  and  worked  with  a  will  to  clear  the 
forest  jungles  from  the  richest  soil  along  the  river 
banks.  The  seeds  of  melons,  corn,  potatoes,  as  well  as 
apples  and  plums  were  gathered  and  planted,  and 
great  was  the  rejoicing  at  the  results  of  this  added  ef- 
fort. The  wild  animals  were  the  only  discordant  fea- 
tures of  the  otherwise  calm  agricultural  life.  The  deer 
and  elk  coveted  the  juicy  cornstalks,  the  moose  loved 
dearly  to  browse  off  the  young  shoots  of  the  fruit  trees. 
The  smaller  animals  chewed  and  gnawed  and  up- 
rooted the  melons  and  potatoes.  Various  birds  were 
equally  noxious,  and  incurred  the  ill-will  of  the  new 
race  of  farmers.  Hitherto  all  destruction  of  animal  and 
bird  life  had  been  for  the  purpose  of  securing  the  flesh, 
bones,  or  hides,  but  now  a  new  purpose  was  instituted : 
to  destroy  the  furred  and  feathered  creatures  as  foes  of 
man's  lawful  toil.  Animal  drives  were  instituted  where 
herds  of  deer,  elk  and  even  bison  were  slaughtered  ruth- 
lessly in  stockades,  birds  were  snared  and  butchered  by 
the  tens  of  thousands. 

In  the  Juniata  country  game  became  so  scarce  that 
one  year  when  a  flood  caused  the  total  loss  of  crops, 
there  was  a  famine,  followed  by  death,  because  there 
was  nothing  to  kill  to  make  up  for  the  loss  of  potatoes 
and  corn.  This,  to  a  certain  extent,  lessened  the  wan- 
ton destruction  of  wild  life,  but  it  also  led  the  more 
shrewd  Indian  agriculturalists  to  clear  patches  of  ground 
on  high  lands,  not  subject  to  flood.  But  then  came  a 
long  protracted  drought,  with  an  equally  great  crop 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  67 

failure.  Death  stalked  and  ramped  among  the  Indian 
villages,  filling  the  Indians'  burial  places  with  countless 
fresh-made  mounds.  Then  the  Indians  awakened  to 
the  true  idea  of  conservation  of  animal  and  bird  life, 
which  they  practiced  until  the  white  men  came,  and 
began  an  indicriminate  slaughter  of  all  living  things. 
The  Indians  were  at  first  amazed  at  such  reckless  con- 
duct from  white  men.  They  had  heard  that  their  own 
remote  ancestors  had  almost  wiped  out  wild  life  with 
dire  results,  but  they,  supposed  savages,  had  abandoned 
such  madness;  yet  these  professedly  intelligent  white 
beings  from  Europe  were  more  ruthless  with  their  wan- 
ton killing  than  the  wildest  aborigine  had  ever  been. 
But  then  the  white  men  were  always  an  enigma  to  the 
calm,  philosophic  Indians. 

"Call  us  wild  Indians,"  Job  Chillaway  would  often 
say,  "why,  we  are  not  half  so  wild  as  the  crazy  white 
creatures  who  came  here  from  across  the  big  water." 

In  the  vicinity  of  the  royal  lodge  house  of  Se-Tan- 
Se-Tan  were  rocky  cliffs ;  it  was  probably  at  the  mouth 
of  Riggle's  Gap,  the  chosen  home  of  many  families  of 
wolves,  while  further  back  in  the  ravine  were  the  cav- 
erns of  bears  and  panthers. 

The  domestic  life  of  the  great  chief  was  in  every 
way  ideal.  In  early  youth  he  had  married  a  beautiful 
maiden  named  Shawanie  and  in  his  hour  of  triumph  re- 
mained true  to  her.  In  that  he  was  an  example  to  many 
v/hite  men,  who  seek  fresh  companions  to  share  their 
completed  destiny.  If  there  was  a  shadow  over  the 
happy  home  it  was  caused  by  the  absence  of  children. 


68  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

For  fifteen  years  no  little  ones  came  to  bless  the  union, 
but  the  noble  warrior  made  no  complaints,  as  such  a 
thing  as  an  hereditary  dynasty  had  never  occurred  to 
him.  He  had  done  his  duty  to  his  fellow-redmen,  that 
was  all.  He  wanted  no  special  favors  for  his  posterity. 
They  would  have  to  stand  on  their  own  basis  as  citizens. 
But  the  presence  of  young  folks  would  undoubtedly 
have  added  to  the  joys  of  the  royal  surroundings. 

But  after  years  of  waiting  a  little  son  was  born  to 
Se-Tan-Se-Tan  and  Shawanie.  It  was  the  signal  for 
great  rejoicing.  Voluntarily  the  tribesmen  set  out  to 
celebrate  the  event  by  a  month  of  feasting  and  frolic. 
Agriculture,  hunting,  fishing,  the  arts  of  pottery  and 
weaving,  all  were  laid  aside  while  the  happy  savages 
ran  races,  played  games,  sang,  danced  and  gorged 
themselves.  It  was  a  wonderful  exhibition  of  the  love 
which  the  redskins  felt  for  their  brilliant  chieftain  and 
his  devoted  wife.  At  the  end  of  the  thirty  days  of 
merrymaking  the  little  one  was  christened  Shawanoh, 
after  his  mother,  and  this  name  has  ever  clung  in  slightly 
altered  form  to  Indians  allied  with  the  dynasty  of  Se- 
Tan-Se-Tan.  The  joys  of  the  christening  were  pro- 
longed for  thirty  days,  during  which  time  the  carnival 
spirit  of  the  revelers  knew  no  bounds.  The  redskins, 
primitive  beings  that  they  were,  were  delirious  with  joy. 
They  assembled  before  their  ruler's  lodge  house,  shout- 
ing that  the  little  boy  be  selected  as  the  successor  of  the 
great  warrior  in  the  dim  distant  day  when  he  should 
join  the  great  majority.  They  pictured  a  long  line  of 
kings,   descended    from   Se-Tan-Se-Tan,    all   equally 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  69 

famous  for  their  greatness  and  goodness.  At  the  end 
of  the  sixty  days  of  frolic  it  was  difficult  to  get  the  sav- 
ages back  to  serious  pursuits.  They  were  dance  crazy, 
feast  crazy,  hoarse  from  shouting  encomiums  of  praise 
on  their  king  and  queen  and  child.  But  eventually  they 
quieted  down,  but  whenever  they  saw  little  Shawanoh  it 
was  a  signal  for  cheering  and  enthusiasm. 

Had  the  little  fellow  been  the  least  bit  vain,  his  na- 
ture would  have  been  spoiled  by  such  adulation,  but 
instead  he  was  modest  like  his  parents,  taking  his  popu- 
larity in  good  grace,  a  true  little  gentleman.  His  sim- 
plicity of  manners  endeared  him  more  to  the  people  as 
he  grew  older.  He  would  make  an  ideal  recipient  for 
their  hopes,  he  would  never  betray  his  trust.  Though 
he  recognized  his  position  in  the  tribe,  his  manners  were 
easy  and  democratic ;  he  never  sought  to  emphasize  the 
gulf  which  separated  him  from  the  Indians  of  lesser  ad- 
vantages. He  was  an  intelligent  child,  anxious  at  all 
times  to  learn,  which  he  strove  to  do  by  asking  ques- 
tions of  his  elders.  In  fact  he  exhibited  a  positive 
genius  for  leadership  seldom  seen  in  one  so  young.  It 
was  about  this  period  when  the  general  outcry  against 
wild  beasts  was  raised.  Stories  of  the  indiscriminate 
slaughters  were  bandied  about  the  royal  encampment, 
where  the  hunters  became  heroes  in  the  eyes  of  all  ex- 
cept little  Shawanoh.  He  expressed  the  greatest  de- 
testation for  this  class  of  men,  so  much  so  that  no  stories 
of  their  exploits  dare  be  mentioned  in  his  presence. 

Out  in  the  ravine  back  of  the  regal  home  were  a  num- 
ber of  wolf  dens.    The  wolfish  families,  models  of  con- 


70  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

jugal  fidelity,  lived  in  crannies  or  fissures  in  the  almost 
precipitous  sides  of  the  great  granite  cliffs.  Little  Sha- 
wanoh  often  stole  out  into  the  ravine  alone  to  watch  the 
playful  antics  of  the  wolf  pups.  The  little  animals 
would  be  brought  out  by  their  parents  to  sun  themselves 
on  flat  overhanging  rocks,  or  sometimes  would  climb 
down  to  the  brookside  where  they  would  frisk  and  play 
along  the  stream  which  flowed  through  it.  On  several 
occasions  the  little  Indian  prince  encountered  old  and 
young  wolves  in  his  path,  but  they  never  thought  of 
molesting  him.  He  became  so  friendly  with  the  saga- 
cious beasts  that  he  could  approach  them  when  at  play 
to  within  a  few  feet,  and  though  they  were  aware 
of  his  presence,  they  showed  no  signs  of  alarm  or 
anger. 

One  day  when  little  Shawanoh  was  sitting  on  his  fa- 
vorite shell  heap  by  the  placid  Juniata  he  saw  a  party 
of  Indians,  dressed  in  war  regalia,  carrying  bows,  ar- 
rows and  spears,  marching  in  single  file  toward  the 
gorge  where  the  wolf  dens  were  located.  It  did  not 
take  his  childish  mind  long  to  grasp  the  situation :  The 
redskins  were  heading  for  a  tour  of  extermination  among 
his  friends,  the  wolves.  Jumping  to  his  feet,  the  little 
prince  ran  after  the  hunters  as  fast  as  his  tiny  legs  could 
carry  him.  Catching  up  with  the  hindmost  of  the  party, 
he  called  out  to  him  to  learn  the  nature  of  the  quest. 
The  burly  savage  looked  around  and  was  amazed  to 
see  his  king's  son  at  his  heels.  As  he  was  an  Indian 
from  a  distant  valley,  he  did  not  know  the  little  prince's 
dislike  for  hunters,  so  he  bowed  low  and  announced 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  71 

that  he  and  his  party  were  bound  for  the  wolf  dens  "to 
wipe  out  the  whole  infamous  race  of  wolves." 

The  little  prince's  copper-colored  face  turned  pale, 
but  he  stamped  his  small  foot  and  shouted :  "You  shall 
do  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  command  you  to  let  the 
wolves,  which  are  my  friends,  alone  once  and  for- 
ever. 

Hearing  this  childish  outbreak  the  other  hunters 
turned  around,  recognizing  their  prince  instantly.  They 
bowed,  but  beyond  that  paid  no  attention  to  his  plea 
for  the  wolves.  At  a  signal  from  the  leader,  they 
started  on  a  dog  trot  up  the  hollow,  leaving  little  Sha- 
wanoh  to  his  own  devices.  While  they  doubtless 
meant  no  discourtesy,  they  imagined  that  as  a  child  he 
could  have  no  real  preferences  as  to  whether  wolves 
should  be  killed  or  not  that  they  would  be  bound  to 
respect. 

But  little  Shawanoh  was  determined  to  save  his  be- 
loved wolves.  He  took  to  his  heels,  running  as  fast  as 
possible  down  the  ravine  to  his  father's  camp  by  the 
Juniata.  The  mighty  chieftain  was  not  at  home,  but 
the  little  fellow  was  so  persistent  and  his  tears  were  so 
genuine  that  the  queen  m.other,  Shawanie,  consented  to 
go  back  with  him  to  the  dens  to  save  the  unhappy  ani- 
mals, if  not  too  late.  The  little  prince  was  thoroughly 
exhausted  from  his  race  and  from  nervous  excitement, 
so  the  queen  took  him  in  her  arms  and  carried  him  up 
the  narrow  path.  As  they  neared  the  rocks  they  could 
hear  voices  above  them,  high  up  on  one  of  the  cliffs, 
which  was  honeycombed  with  the  wolves'  dens.     The 


72  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

prince  told  his  mother  to  stop  and  shout  to  the  impudent 
hunters. 

Putting  Shawanoh  on  the  ground,  the  queen  called 
out  in  as  loud  tones  as  she  could  command,  "Indians, 
up  there  on  the  cliff,  touch  not  a  single  wolf,  in  the 
name  of  your  queen." 

The  haughty  redskins  were  dumfounded  at  this  un- 
expected summons,  and  almost  fell  off  the  steep  ledges 
on  which  they  were  standing.  They  looked  down  to 
where  the  voice  came  from,  but  they  could  see  no  one, 
the  foliage  was  so  dense.  They  had  not  succeeded  in 
breaking  into  the  dens  as  yet,  and  they  hated  to  be 
crossed  in  their  bloodthirsty  work,  but  a  command  from 
their  queen's  lips  could  not  be  disregarded.  So  after  a 
"council  of  war"  they  decided  to  climb  down  the  cliff 
and  make  sure  that  it  was  really  their  queen  who  had 
spoken.  They  had  a  strong  feeling  that  it  was  only 
some  servant  brought  out  there  by  the  little  prince  to 
scare  them  from  their  work.  When  they  reached  the 
valley  they  saw  at  a  glance  that  it  was  the  real  queen, 
so  they  prostrated  themselves  before  her  and  said  that 
they  were  sorry;  they  would  do  no  more  hunting. 
After  the  queen  and  her  little  son  departed  the  Indians 
again  conferred  together. 

"No  doubt  the  queen  only  came  out  here  to  pacify 
that  war-like  little  prince.  Now  that  she  has  gone,  we 
can  go  back  and  finish  our  work."  All  agreed  that 
this  was  sound  logic,  so  when  the  "coast  was  clear" 
they  reclimbed  the  steep  face  of  the  cliff.  When  little 
Shawanoh  reached  his  lodge-house  he  watched  for  the 


< 

< 
Z 

UJ 

X 

H 

Z 

o 

o 
z 

z 

> 

UJ 

H 

UJ 

D 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  73 

return  of  the  hunters,  who  he  supposed  were  following 
at  a  respectful  distance.  As  they  did  not  return  he 
mentioned  the  circumstance  to  the  queen. 

"Perhaps  they  have  departed  by  another  route," 
said  the  queen  to  calm  his  fears.  But  after  half  an 
hour  had  passed,  and  no  Indians  appeared,  Shawanoh 
became  certain  that  his  mother's  and  his  wishes  had 
been  disobeyed.  He  chafed  with  anger  and  humilia- 
tion, as  well  as  with  fear  for  the  safety  of  the  wolves. 
He  was  lying  on  his  back  weeping  when  his  father 
Se-Tan-Se-Tan  appeared  at  the  camp.  He  inquired 
and  was  told  the  cause  of  his  beloved  son's  grief. 

"I  cannot  believe  that  any  Indians  would  disobey 
such  direct  commands,  but  then  order  has  been  so  re- 
cently secured  among  our  race  that  they  may  not  under- 
stand the  meaning  of  authority.  But  to  make  sure,  I 
will  go  to  the  wolf  dens  and  see  if  they  are  still  there." 

Lifting  Shawanoh  to  his  shoulder,  he  marched  up  the 
ravine.  And  he  got  to  the  cliffs  none  too  soon.  He 
could  hear  the  shouts  of  the  hunters,  the  falling  of 
stones  and  the  snarls  of  the  wolves, — evidently  they 
had  penetrated  one  of  the  dens  and  were  ready  to  be- 
gin a  general  butchery. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  Se-Tan-Se-Tan  lost  his 
temper.  Drawing  himself  erect,  he  shouted,  his  voice 
trembling  with  emotion:  "Indians,  what  do  you  mean 
to  be  killing  those  wolves  in  disregard  of  the  orders  of 
your  queen  and  your  prince.  Desist  at  once,  for  I  am 
your  ruler,  Se-Tan-Se-Tan." 

The  Indians  dropped  their  wedges  and  spears,  and 


74  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

trembling,  left  the  frightened  wolves  and  meekly  de- 
scended the  chff.  As  they  did  so  the  wolves  ran  out 
and  scampered  along  their  narrow  pathways  to  safety, 
some  of  them  catching  a  glimpse  of  their  little  friend 
and  deliverer  still  seated  on  his  father's  shoulder. 

Se-Tan-Se-Tan  was  generally  a  kind  and  a  just 
man,  but  he  had  established  authority  by  years  of  work 
and  was  not  going  to  jeopardize  it.  So  he  drew  his 
stone  hunting  knife, — as  sharp  a  blade  as  any  later  one 
of  steel, — and  biting  his  lips  to  keep  in  his  angry  words, 
waited  for  the  approach  of  the  wayward  savages.  As 
the  first  one  stepped  forward,  bending  low  in  respect 
for  his  king,  the  angry  monarch  seized  him  by  an  ear, 
and  by  a  deft  stroke  of  his  keen  knife,  cut  it  off  and 
flung  the  bleeding  member  to  the  ground.  The  savage, 
with  a  shriek  of  pain,  got  up  and  dashed  into  the  forest, 
his  blood  spattering  the  big  broad  leaves  of  the  linden 
trees  which  lined  the  banks.  As  one  by  one  the  other 
Indians  approached,  Se-Tan-Se-Tan  seized  them  and 
cut  off  one  of  their  ears.  It  was  a  bloody  scene,  and 
the  shrieks  of  the  wounded  savages  echoed  up  and 
down  the  wild  glen.  While  the  mutilations  were  pro- 
gressing little  Shawanoh  danced  and  laughed  until  he 
felt  as  if  his  sides  would  split.  Kindly  child  that  he 
usually  was,  his  primitive  nature  glutted  itself  with  re- 
venge. The  earless  redskins  saw  the  little  prince's  antics, 
and  their  pain  seemed  more  intense  while  he  was  laugh- 
ing at  them.  When  the  last  one  had  vanished  howling 
in  the  gloom  of  the  forest,  Se-Tan-Se-Tan  took  the  boy 
on  his  shoulder  and  returned  to  his  campground  near 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  75 

the  Juniata.  Needless  to  say  there  was  no  more  wolf 
hunting  in  the  vicinity  of  the  king's  home,  nor  for  miles 
in  the  neighborhood;  it  was  a  pastime  under  the  ban 
of  royal  displeasure. 

A  year  passed,  and  the  king,  queen  and  prince  were 
cam.ped  at  the  foot  of  the  Blue  Knob,  the  highest  moun- 
tain peak  in  Pennsylvania,  on  the  summit  of  which 
som.e  religious  exercises  were  to  be  held  the  next  day. 
The  kingly  couple,  m  a  spirit  of  true  democracy,  had 
taken  a  promenade  down  Poplar  Run  to  gather  some 
huckleberries.  For  the  moment  the  little  prince,  Sha- 
wanoh,  was  left  alone  at  the  camp,  playing  with  several 
tame  fawns.  His  parents  had  asked  him  to  go  with 
them,  but  he  had  declined,  preferring  temporarily  the 
society  of  his  pets.  While  playing  gleefully,  pulling 
the  little  animals'  ears  and  climbing  on  their  backs, 
something  caused  him  to  look  up,  and  he  saw  the  form 
of  one  of  the  Indians  whom  his  father  had  mutilated  at 
the  wolf  den  the  summer  before.  Like  a  sparrow  hawk 
pounces  on  a  field  mouse,  the  savage  was  upon  the  de- 
fenceless child.  Clutching  him  by  the  throat,  the  re- 
vengeful redman  drew  a  sharp  knife,  cutting  off  both 
the  child's  ears,  and  then  severing  his  juglar  vein.  The 
little  fellow  was  dead  in  a  few  minutes,  and  terrible  to 
witness  was  the  grief  of  his  parents  when  they  returned 
half  an  hour  later.  But  great  though  they  may  have 
been  in  temporal  affairs,  they  could  not  restore  life  to 
their  dead  boy.  So  they  resolved  to  have  him  buried 
with  pomp  on  the  top  of  the  Blue  Knob,  where  his 
little  body  could  hold  converse  with  the  mighty  forces 


76  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

of  nature,  his  cousin-germans,  the  Sun,  the  Winds,  and 
the  Storms. 

The  next  day,  which  was  to  have  been  one  of  feast- 
ing and  religious  exultation,  was  instead  a  period  of 
sadness  and  weeping.  An  impressive  procession,  in 
Indian  file,  ascended  the  Blue  Knob  at  daybreak,  the 
line  of  Indians  being  so  long  that  at  one  time  it  ex- 
tended from  the  summit  to  the  base  of  the  mighty  moun- 
tain. In  an  open  space,  on  the  wind-swept  crest,  where 
centuries  of  storms  had  battered  away  the  trees,  the 
body  of  Prince  Shawanoh  was  laid  to  rest.  When 
darkness  set  in  the  mourners  retired,  leaving  the  little 
corpse  alone  with  nature's  grandeur.  When  the  moon 
came  out  and  peeped  over  the  summit,  wolves,  like 
sentinels,  crept  out  from  four  corners  of  the  forest  and 
bayed  sadly  over  the  grave. 

Early  the  next  evening  a  family  of  skulking  panthers 
sought  to  dig  up  the  remains,  and  began  clawing  at  the 
mound.  It  so  happened  that  the  grief-stricken  Se-Tan- 
Se-Tan  and  his  queen  wished  to  revisit  their  son's 
grave  to  cover  it  with  sprigs  of  wild  myrtle,  and  arrived 
in  sight  of  the  spot  at  about  this  moment.  And  they 
came  in  time  to  witness  a  tragic  scene.  While  the 
panthers  were  digging  into  the  grave,  four  gaunt  grey 
wolves,  with  bloodshot  eyes  and  lolling  tongues  sprang 
at  them  from  the  four  corners  of  the  forest,  literally 
tearing  the  tawny  brutes  to  pieces.  Never  was  a  sud- 
den onslaught  more  successful.  Six  dead  panthers,  rent 
almost  to  bits,  vindicated  the  prowess  of  the  wolfish 
watchers  over  the  remains  of  the  little  prince.     When 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  77 

the  panthers  were  despatched,  the  wolves  crouched  on 
the  mound,  pouring  their  hot  tears  into  the  earth.  The 
bereaved  parents,  overcome  by  the  strange  sight,  re- 
tired from  the  mountain  without  being  observed.  But 
they  resolved  to  pay  a  rich  tribute  to  the  rare  goodness 
of  the  faithful  beasts.  First  of  all  the  next  day  came 
a  royal  decree  protecting  wolves  forever,  and  giving  the 
name  of  "The  Wolf  Tribe"  to  the  newly  formed  con- 
federacy ruled  over  by  King  Se-Tan-Se-Tan.  And  so 
it  remained  for  untold  centuries.  The  wolves  were  ven- 
erated and  their  name  kept  alive  by  one  of  the  noblest 
clans  of  warriors  who  ever  walked  this  earth.  And 
little  Shawanoh,  the  innocent  cause  of  it  all,  had  paid 
back  his  debt  of  friendship  to  his  wolfish  comrades, 
not  only  with  his  life,  but  with  the  priceless  gift  of 
immortality. 


78  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 


VI. 

CANDLEMAS. 

A  LEGEND  FROM  THE  SHADE  GAP. 

NER  MIDDLESWARTH.  that  splendid  Con- 
necticut Yankee  who  by  long  residence  in  Sny- 
der County  became  the  "Dutchest"  of  Pennsyl- 
vania Dutchmen,  was  very  fond,  in  his  latter  years,  of 
recounting  old  stories  which  he  heard  when  he  first 
penetrated  into  the  wild  country  tributary  to  the  Juni- 
ata, stories  of  Indians,  borderers,  outlaws,  witches,  and 
also  quaint  folklore  and  traditions.  He  often  told  his 
family  he  had  made  notes  of  some  of  his  more  remark- 
able experiences;  that  when  he  had  the  time  he  would 
write  a  book  of  reminiscences. 

But  the  chance  never  came,  his  busy  life  extended 
to  the  end,  and  when  he  passed  away,  several  years 
past  his  eightieth  birthday,  his  story  went  to  the  grave 
unrecorded,  except  in  the  form  of  the  above-mentioned 
fireside  entertainments. 

To  listen  to  him  was  like  sitting  before  a  Pennsyl- 
vania edition  of  the  Arabian  Nights!  The  one-time 
speaker  of  the  House  of  Representatives  at  Harrisburg 
was  not  so  well  acquainted  with  Job  Chillaway  as  with 
another  famous  Indian  of  the  Juniata  Valley,  Captain 
Logan.     This  is  the  Logan  for  whom  the  Logan  Val- 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  79 

ley  below  Altoona  was  named,  on  account  of  his  hav- 
ing lived  for  some  time  near  Martin  Bell's  old  furnace. 
Captain  Logan  was  the  oldest  son  of  old  Shikelle- 
mus,  Colonel  Conrad  Weiser's  friend,  and  the  vice- 
gerent of  the  Iroquois  Confederacy  at  Shamokin,  now 
Sunbury.  On  his  father's  death  in  1  748  he  was  pro- 
posed for  the  vicegerency  by  Weiser,  but  was  dis- 
qualified by  the  Council  of  Chiefs  at  Onondaga,  be- 
cause he  had  only  one  eye,  a  supreme  defect  to  the 
Mingoes,  who  all  but  worshiped  physical  perfection. 
Without  his  official  designation  he  strove  to  exert  an 
influence  over  his  race,  but  by  1  750  he  withdrew  to  the 
Juniata  Valley  to  spend  the  remainder  of  his  life  away 
from  the  intrigues  and  duplicity  that  had  its  center  at 
Shamokin.  During  the  Revolutionary  War  he  ren- 
dered invaluable  service  to  the  Colonies,  especially  in 
dealing  with  the  notorious  Tory,  Weston.  A  younger 
brother,  James  Logan,  who  was  killed  in  1  780,  was 
known  as  the  greatest  of  Indian  orators,  and  lived  for 
several  years  at  Logan's  Spring,  near  Reedsville.  Cap- 
tain Logan  often  revisited  the  scenes  of  his  youth  at 
Shamokin,  and  usually  traveled  on  foot  through  Middle 
Creek  Valley,  as  the  best  way  to  reach  the  forks  of 
the  Susquehanna.  He  always  made  it  a  point  to  break 
the  journey  by  spending  a  night  at  the  Middleswarth 
homestead  near  Beaver  Springs.  He  was  particularly 
interested  in  the  Middleswarths,  as  the  older  genera- 
tions in  Connecticut  had  befriended  some  of  the  Pe- 
quots  after  their  last  great  defeats,  when  they  sought 
refuge  in  the  northern  forests  in  the  Nutmeg  State. 


80  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

Some  of  these  Indians  later  were  converted  by  the 
Moravian  missionaries,  Buttner,  Rauch  and  Mack. 
Captain  Logan  felt  that  the  Middleswarths  on  their  rec- 
ord could  be  trusted  as  true  friends  of  the  redmen,  con- 
sequently he  could  break  bread  with  them  without  fear 
or  mental  reservation. 

He  was  therefore  particularly  happy  when  under 
their  hospitable  roof,  and  often  recounted  to  the  head 
of  the  family  quaint  incidents  of  the  long  vanished 
past.  On  one  occasion  the  subject  of  "ground  hog 
day,"  the  second  of  February,  was  alluded  to,  and  the 
old  Indian  laughed,  remarking  that  it  was  an  Indian 
tradition,  and  that  he  would  like  to  tell  the  complete 
story  of  how  the  ground  hog  came  to  be  the  patron 
saint  of  Candlemas.  As  is  well  known,  this  is  dis- 
tinctively an  American  superstition,  but  its  limits  do  not 
even  extend  to  all  sections  of  this  country.  In  Northern 
New  York  the  bear  is  the  animal  which  sees  its  shadow, 
almost  similar  to  the  old  superstition  of  France  and 
Spain.  In  Germany  it  is  the  badger  which  sees  its 
shadow  on  the  fated  day  in  February.  The  old  French 
tradition  runs  as  follows:  "Le  jour  de  la  Chandeleur 
si  le  soleil  parait  avant  midi.  Tours  rentre  dans  la 
taniere  pendent  quarante  jours."  Another  version  has 
it,  "A  la  Purification,  grand  froid,  neige  abondante  ou 
sinon  Tours  sort  de  sa  taniere,  fait  quelque  tours  et 
rentre  pour  quarante  jours." 

When  Ner  Middleswarth's  family  came  to  Penn- 
sylvania they  brought  the  bear  story  with  them,  and 
were  not  a  little  surprised  to  find  that  in  their  new  house 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES 


bruin  had  given  way  to  the  ground  hog,  or  as  they  had 
called  it  in  Litchfield  County,  the  vvoodchuck.  They 
asked  their  Dutch  neighbors,  who  seemed  to  know  noth- 
ing of  how  the  woodchuck  had  taken  the  place  of  the 
bear  and  the  badger.  Some  of  the  older  Germans  re- 
marked that  they  were  surprised  to  find  the  woodchuck 
the  arbiter  of  the  seasons,  but  they  had  adopted  the 
local  tradition  along  with  the  other  pleasures  or  hard- 
ships of  the  frontier.  One  must  go  to  the  Indians  to  find 
the  origin  of  the  famous  ground-hog  story.  But  most  of 
the  Indians  who  passed  up  and  down  the  valleys  spoke 
very  little  English,  and  were  inclined  to  be  uncom- 
municative on  any  subject  that  might  bring  edification 
to  their  white  successors.  They  were  accused  of  know- 
ing of  mines  of  rare  metals,  and  keeping  the  information 
from  the  whites.  As  a  rule  they  were  surly  and  taci- 
turn, ever  ready  to  ask  favors,  but  wanted  to  give  as 
little  as  possible  in  return.  They  could  not  grasp  the 
philosophy  of  the  white  man's  central  idea,  that  he  was 
giving  his  civilization  to  a  wild  country,  even  if  an  entire 
race  of  human  beings  had  to  be  blotted  out  in  the  proc- 
ess. All  they  saw  was  a  lot  of  white-faced  creatures, 
for  the  most  part  illiterate,  wasteful  and  cruel,  living 
in  crude  log  cabins  on  the  lands  that  had  formerly  be- 
longed to  the  Indian  race,  and  were  theirs  still  by  right. 
They  had  been  cheated  or  driven  by  force  off  these 
lands,  where  they  had  grown  crops  as  good  as  the 
white  man's,  or  where  they  had  hunted  and  fished  ac- 
cording to  methods  that  would  shame  a  latter-day 
"conservationist."     They  were  a  wronged  race,  driven 


82  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

from  post  to  pillar,  all  for  a  thing  called  "civilization," 
which  at  bottom  possessed  no  heart,  no  soul,  no  de- 
cency, no  kindliness. 

The  only  white  men  whom  they  could  tolerate  were 
the  gentle  Roman  Catholic  or  Moravian  missionaries, 
whom  they  regarded  as  dupes  of  the  mercenary  cap- 
tains of  "civilization."  But  the  few  remaining  Indians, 
roving  aimlessly  through  the  hills  and  valleys  which 
they  once  controlled,  were  often  short  of  food.  They 
had  to  make  friends  with  the  settlers  to  get  a  bite  to  eat, 
or  a  night's  shelter,  or  a  little  work.  They  were  a  lot 
of  unhappy  ghosts  of  an  order  of  things  which  may 
have  been  as  near  perfect  as  any  scheme  of  life  we  have 
today. 

The  Pennsylvania  Indians  were  not  savages,  but  in- 
dustrious, decent  beings,  fearing  their  God,  and  just 
to  their  fellows,  until  stripped  of  their  homes,  their 
livelihood,  and  frequently  their  women  and  children, 
they  became  crazed  by  their  wrongs,  and  on  the  war- 
path, and  by  the  midnight  sortie,  sought  to  annihilate 
their  cowardly  white  conquerors.  Their  story  is  a  sad 
one,  yet  the  justice  of  it  is  beginning  to  dawn  on  all  fair- 
minded  and  temperate  Americans. 

But  it  is  too  late.  Gone  are  the  noble  redmen. 
They  will  never  know  that  their  cause  has  at  least  been 
recognized  as  right  by  some.  Of  all  Indians  Captain 
Logan  cherished  less  rancor  and  bitterness,  considering 
the  extent  of  his  bad  treatment  by  the  whites.  Blinded 
in  one  eye  by  a  white  man,  thereby  forfeiting  the  vice- 
gerency,  then  stripped  of  his  lands,  his  brother's  family 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  83 

murdered  by  whites,  even  his  humble  cabins  at  Tyrone, 
and  also  at  Chickalacamoose  taken  from  him  through 
faulty  titles,  he  became  in  his  old  days  a  wanderer  on 
the  face  of  the  earth.  It  was  no  wonder,  therefore,  that 
his  heart  warmed  and  his  spirit  expanded  in  such  hos- 
pitable homes  as  that  of  the  Middleswarth  family  close 
to  the  "Juniata  Divide."  The  old  Indian  declared 
that  he  could  only  think  and  talk  of  the  past  by  the  fire- 
light, and  at  night.  Candles  were  accounted  a  luxury 
in  those  days,  so  his  wish  was  readily  granted.  Then, 
he  said,  he  felt  he  was  again  by  the  patriarchal  campfire 
on  Shikellemus's  Run  on  the  Miller  farm  near  West 
Milton,  where  his  old  father,  the  great  vicegerent  of 
the  Iroquois,  would  gather  his  children  about  him  and 
tell  the  stories  of  the  dim  and  distant  past. 

It  was  in  the  days  when  the  world  was  new,  thus  the 
redmen  always  began  their  tales,  when  the  Indian  race 
was  in  close  communion  with  the  Great  Spirit,  and  the 
secrets  of  the  Infinite  Workship  were  revealed  to  his 
chosen  people,  that  the  bear  gave  displeasure  to  the 
exact  balance  of  things  by  his  ravenous  appetite.  So 
great  was  his  destruction  of  the  lesser  creatures,  as  he 
was  then  on  a  strictly  carniverous  diet,  that  it  looked 
as  if  his  race  would  devour  all  else  except  mankind. 
As  like  all  creatures  he  was  created  for  a  wise  purpose, 
it  would  have  been  wrong  to  exterminate  him,  conse- 
quently he  must  be  checked  in  his  folly.  He  must  be 
taught  discretion,  taught  to  take  his  proper  place  in  the 
scheme  of  nature. 

The  Great  Spirit  was  then  experimenting  with  the 


84  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

various  forms  and  means  of  life,  so  he  tried  putting  the 
bears  on  a  herbaceous  diet,  and  in  a  short  while  their 
fierce  claws  lost  their  power  to  kill.  That  lessened  their 
destructiveness,  but  they  soon  began  to  work  havoc 
with  fruits  and  gardens,  to  become  foes  of  plant  life. 
Then  this  herbaceous  diet  was  modified  so  that  they 
subsisted  chiefly  on  plants,  berries,  and  fruits,  and  to 
make  up  for  the  lack  of  their  principal  diet  in  winter, 
a  long  sleep  or  hibernation  was  decreed  for  them.  This 
worked  very  well,  for  the  bears  were  glutted  with  nuts, 
fruits,  com,  and  berries  by  the  time  the  autumn  set  in, 
and  were  ready  to  climb  into  some  dark  retreat  to  "sleep 
it  off." 

So  the  bears,  as  the  season  advanced,  congregated 
into  sections  of  the  country  where  caverns  and  sinks 
abounded,  where  they  staggered  about  half  asleep, 
quarreling  for  the  possession  of  the  darkest  recesses. 
Their  long  sleep  was  said  to  be  a  dreamless  one,  they 
were  literally  dead  until  the  early  days  of  February. 
In  Europe  it  was  generally  about  the  twelfth  of  Febru- 
ary when  they  emerged  from  their  retreats,  while  in 
Pennsylvania  it  was  about  ten  days  earlier.  Then  they 
became  restless  and  sallied  forth  to  wander  about  the 
winter  landscape. 

Being  too  clumsy-footed  in  the  deep  snows  to  capture 
any  game,  and  unable  to  dig  out  any  food  from  under 
the  drifts,  many  of  the  poor  creatures  perished  from 
hunger  and  exposure.  Benumbed  by  cold,  they  could 
hardly  reach  their  caves  in  safety,  or  when  they  got  to 
them,  they  were  so  hungry  that  they  cpuld  npt  fall  to 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  85 

sleep,  so  the  Great  Spirit  again  had  to  go  to  the  rescue 
of  the  bears.  This  time  it  was  decreed  that  if  the  bear 
which  emerged  first  from  his  cave,  on  a  day,  which  later 
curiously  enough  corresponded  with  the  Candlemas 
Day  of  Christian  countries,  and  saw  his  shadow,  he 
should  return  to  his  hiding  place  immediately  and  not 
wake  his  fellows,  and  all  would  sleep  for  forty  more 
days.  This  was  because  in  high  mountains,  where  the 
bears  made  their  homes,  a  clear  day  in  early  February 
usually  signified  continued  cold  and  snows,  an  indefinite 
prolongation  of  winter.  If  on  the  other  hand,  it  was 
foggy  or  cloudy,  it  presaged  thaws  and  milder  weather, 
an  early  spring.  Early  February  was  a  climatic  period, 
and  its  prognostications  rarely  went  amiss.  It  is  the 
month  of  those  beautiful  fleecy  white  clouds  called 
"Indian  clouds."  So  the  bear  population  were  saved 
much  trouble  and  suffering,  and  became  animals  of 
kindly  and  gentle  nature  in  appreciation  of  the  favor 
thus  bestowed  upon  them. 

It  was  considered  a  high  honor  to  be  the  King  bear, 
or  Head  bear,  the  one  which  felt  the  first  impulse  to 
awake,  to  crawl  outside  to  inspect  the  weather  pros- 
pects. In  the  autumn  in  chestnut  season,  in  that  most 
glorious  period  of  Indian  summer,  when  a  pale  mauve 
haze  hangs  over  the  mountain  landscapes,  and  the  air 
is  sweet  with  the  odor  of  drying  leaves  and  wild  fruit, 
when  it  is  hard  to  tell  where  mountains  end  and  sky 
begins,  the  bears  met  in  the  Shade  Gap,  and  gradually 
it  came  to  pass  that  they  elected  their  leader,  or  the 
"Awakening  Bear."     Usually  the  elections  were  of  a 


86  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

harmonious  character,  more  so,  said  Captain  Logan, 
than  some  elections  in  the  eastern  counties  when 
Dutch  and  Scotch-Irish  battled  for  supremacy  at  the 
polls. 

Generally  the  biggest  and  strongest  bear  was  chosen 
for  the  honor,  like  in  Captain  Logan's  day,  rich  men 
and  landowners  monopolized  the  highest  positions  in 
the  gift  of  the  State.  The  bear  that  won  by  the  count 
of  noses  was  escorted  to  where  the  nuts  and  pumpkins 
were  the  thickest,  and  left  to  gorge  himself  unmolested. 
He  must  needs  eat  an  extra  store,  as  if  he  awoke  and 
found  winter  still  raging,  he  should  have  a  comfortable 
feeling  in  his  stomach,  else  he  could  not  get  to  sleep 
again.  Perhaps  it  might  have  been  better  to  lay  up  a 
stock  of  provisions,  but  the  bears  preferred  spring  food 
in  springtime,  and  nine  times  out  of  ten  they  found  the 
extended  period  of  winter,  when  it  was  easier  to  go  to 
sleep  again  than  to  sit  in  a  damp  cave  and  live  on 
mouldy  nuts. 

If  the  bear  chosen  as  leader  was  such  a  big  bear  that 
his  sway  was  not  easily  disputed,  he  was  re-elected  for 
years  in  succession  until  some  younger  bear  outstripped 
him  in  size  and  influence.  In  those  distant  days  there 
were  bears  of  various  colors  in  Pennsylvania,  some 
shiny  black,  some  foxy  red,  some  brown,  some  yellow, 
and  a  few  white.  For  some  reason  or  other  the  black 
bears  usually  chose  the  leader  from  one  of  their  number. 
It  may  have  been  an  earlier  phase  of  Ernest  Kenan's 
saying,  "The  black  heads  are  always  the  rulers."  But 
among  leaders  of  mankind,  Caesar,  Napoleon,  Wash- 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  87 

ington,  Hamilton,  Jefferson  and  Grant  were  not  black- 
haired  men,  but  on  the  "red  headed"  order. 

At  the  time  of  the  appearance  of  the  first  permanent 
white  settlers  in  Pennsylvania  these  bears  of  various 
colors  were  still  to  be  found.  The  black  bears  were 
vastly  in  the  majority  (there  were  two  varieties  of  these, 
"hog"  and  "dog"  bears).  Next  in  numbers  came  the 
red  bears  (the  last  one  was  killed  in  Union  County  in 
1912),  then  the  brown  bears  (one  was  captured  alive 
in  Cameron  County  in  1914),  then  the  yellow  bears 
(one  was  killed  in  Susquehanna  County  about  a  cen- 
tury ago) ,  and  lastly  the  white  bears,  which  were  al- 
ways the  rarest,  the  last  one  known  having  been  taken 
in  an  animal  drive  in  the  present  confines  of  Snyder 
County  by  "Black  Jack"  Schwartz  in  1  760.  All  came 
from  the  same  original  stock  (Ursus  Americanus),  but 
formed  distinct  and  separate  families.  At  one  period 
in  the  early  history  of  the  bear  tribe  in  Pennsylvania,  a 
black  bear  weighing  a  thousand  pounds  was  elected 
leader  for  twenty-one  years  in  succession.  He  was  a 
surly  old  bear,  a  conceited  old  bear,  but  being  of  such 
tremendous  bulk  and  of  the  popular  color,  he  always 
triumphed  in  the  animal  contests.  He  wore  his  honors 
niggardly,  begrudging  the  fact  that  he  had  to  get  awake 
and  crawl  out  in  the  cold,  yet  he  would  not  relinquish 
the  privilege  to  any  younger  bear,  would  not  think  of 
such  a  thing. 

Plots  were  raised  by  pugnacious  young  red  or  yellow 
bears  to  oust  this  swarthy  despot,  but  they  always 
faded  away  on  election  morn,  when  the  big  black  bear 


88  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

eyed  the  electors  during  the  count  of  noses.  "Unani- 
mous for  the  Big  Black  Bear,"  was  invariably  the  re- 
sult. As  years  wore  on  "the  big  fellow"  became  so 
lazy  that  when  he  became  awake  he  would  do  little 
more  than  poke  his  nose  out  of  the  cave.  He  hated  to 
think  of  finding  "winter  over;"  it  meant  long  journey- 
ing to  all  the  other  bear  caves  in  Shade  Gap,  to  inform 
the  various  bear  families  that  it  was  time  to  "be  up  and 
doing."  If  there  was  any  chance  of  his  making  a  mis- 
take in  favor  of  a  prolonged  winter,  he  was  calculated 
to  do  it. 

This  displeased  many  energetic  young  bears,  who 
hated  to  have  so  much  time  taken  out  of  their  lives  by 
the  period  of  hibernation.  But  no  bear  was  strong 
enough  to  oust  the  Big  Black  Bear,  so  he  continued  his 
undisputed  sway.  He  was  an  exclusive,  almost  regal, 
old  bear,  occupying  a  cave  high  up  on  the  mountain 
side  all  by  himself.  He  had  a  black  mate,  and  many 
generations  of  black  offspring,  but  these  he  only  mingled 
with  during  the  outdoor  life  in  spring,  summer  and 
autumn. 

One  winter  morning  when  he  felt  the  signs  of  awak- 
ening consciousness,  which  betokened  that  his  onerous 
task  was  before  him,  he  stretched  and  flopped  himself 
about  the  damp  stone  floor  of  his  cave,  loath  to  get  up 
and  venture  out  into  the  February  air.  As  he  rolled 
about  his  cavern  he  felt  something  soft  and  furry.  He 
caught  it  with  one  of  his  huge  paws  and  drew  it  to  him. 
It  was  a  small  and  badly  frightened  ground-hog.  The 
little  creature  squeaked  and  squirmed,  begging  that  its 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  89 

life  be  spared.  The  big  bear  growled  threateningly, 
and  shook  his  huge  head  and  gnashed  his  teeth,  so  that 
he  looked  as  if  he  was  going  to  annihilate  the  entire 
race  of  ground-hogs  for  this  one's  presuming  to  enter 
his  inner  sanctum.  But  instead  of  devouring  the  little 
animal  he  put  a  proposition  to  him  that  he  would  spare 
his  life  if  he  would  go  outdoors  and  see  if  the  winter 
was  over. 

The  ground  hog,  very  grateful,  hopped  outside.  It 
was  dark  and  foggy,  the  mountains  across  the  valley 
could  not  be  seen,  water  was  running  off  the  outer 
ledges  of  the  cave.  He  hurried  in  and  gave  the  news  to 
the  giant  bear.  The  bear  grunted.  He  was  sorry  that 
winter  was  over,  and  told  the  ground  hog  that  his  work 
was  by  no  means  finished.  He  must  visit  all  the  bear 
caves  and  pits  in  Shade  Gap  on  both  mountains,  and 
inform  the  occupants  that  the  winter  was  at  an  end. 
The  ground  hog,  though  he  was  frightened  at  the  pros- 
pect of  facing  so  many  strange  bears,  obeyed,  and 
crawling  in  the  caverns,  bit  at  the  bears'  ears  until 
they  awakened,  whispering  to  them  their  chief's  mes- 
sage. 

When  the  bears  had  all  assembled  in  the  ravine  at 
the  Gap,  they  held  a  council  of  war.  They  were  an- 
gered at  the  laziness  of  their  leader,  whom  they  had 
honored  so  many  times.  Yet,  after  long  deliberation, 
they  could  not  select  another  bear  to  take  his  place,  so 
many  wanted  the  honor.  So  one  sagacious  yellow  bear, 
next  in  size  to  the  unpopular  black  monster,  suggested 
that  they  depose  the  big  fellow  at  once  and  name  the 


90  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

ground  hog  as  their  "weather  prophet"  for  life.  This 
was  decided  on  by  a  growling,  grunting  majority,  many 
of  the  black  bears  in  the  heat  of  passion  voting  with 
their  lighter  colored  fellows. 

The  ground  hog  was  found  and  informed  of  his  new 
position,  which  he  accepted  with  a  neat  little  speech. 

In  the  midst  of  the  proceedings  the  big  black  bear 
appeared  on  the  scene,  pausing  every  now  and  then  to 
scratch  his  sleep-seared  eyes  with  his  soft  claws.  Quick 
as  a  flash  the  other  bears  turned  on  him,  and  before  he 
could  utter  a  plea  for  mercy,  he  was  so  badly  torn  and 
clawed  that  he  soon  died.  And  ever  since  that  time  the 
ground  hog  has  been  faithful  to  his  trust,  and  gives  the 
signal  of  the  continuance  or  the  end  of  King  Frost's 
reign  to  all  the  bears,  and  to  the  members  of  his  own 
little  race. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  91 


VII. 
THE  WARLOCK. 

A  STORY  FROM  THE  RAYSTOWN  BRANCH. 

DR.  SCHOEPF,  the  eminent  German  army  sur- 
geon, who  traveled  across  the  Juniata  head- 
waters to  Pittsburg  in  1 783,  was  a  keen  ob- 
server of  men  and  manners.  Though  he  recounts  hav- 
ing met  many  strange  individuals  in  his  pilgrimages 
among  the  wilds,  none  appealed  to  him  more,  or  left  a 
more  lasting  memory  than  the  man  whom  he  calls 
"Herrman  Husband,"  "the  Philosopher  of  the  Alle- 
ghenies."  In  the  good  doctor's  book  "Travels  in  the 
Confederation,"  he  speaks  of  the  "Philosopher"  having 
told  him  that  he  had  spent  much  time  in  the  mountains 
of  North  Carolina.  While  that  was  correct,  yet  this 
strange — almost  supernatural — being  first  saw  the  light 
of  day  on  the  Raystown  Branch  of  the  Juniata,  though 
he  traveled  far  from  it  more  than  once  during  his  long 
and  eventful  life.  He  was  the  son  of  a  renegade  mem- 
ber of  the  party  of  hermits  brought  to  the  Wissahickon 
by  Kelpius  in  1 690,  and  himself  would  have  made  a 
striking  figure  in  one  of  George  Lippard's  romances 
of  early  Germantown. 

Early  in  life,  having  lost  both  of  his  parents,  he  had 
followed  the  bison  in  their  migrations  along  the  Alle- 


92  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

ghenies  to  the  south  for  a  distance  of  four  hundred 
miles,  his  earliest  training  being  that  of  a  hunter.  In 
the  North  Carolina  mountains  in  the  Big  Smoky  Range, 
at  the  foot  of  Bear  Wallow  Mountain,  he  had  fallen 
in  with  an  old  man  of  mystical  tendencies,  who  adopted 
him  as  a  son,  and  whose  surname  he  assumed.  Under 
his  tutelage  the  latent  mysticism  which  he  inherited 
from  his  fathers  came  to  the  fore;  he  forsook  hunting 
and  aimless  wandering;  all  he  cared  for  from  then  on 
was  to  unravel  nature's  inmost  mysteries  where  human 
intellect  had  hitherto  failed  so  ignominously.  On  the 
death  of  the  old  North  Carolinian  he  was  again  left  to 
his  own  devices,  and  after  serving  a  time  in  the  Regu- 
lators he  felt  the  call  of  the  beloved  Juniata,  so  he  re- 
turned to  the  scenes  of  his  boyhood. 

Most  of  his  old  friends  had  moved  further  on,  but 
that  meant  least  of  anything  to  him.  He  took  up  his 
residence  in  an  abandoned  log  hut,  on  a  branch  of  the 
Raystown.  where  he  pored  over  the  volumes  of  Eck- 
hart  and  Paracelsus  that  the  old  man  in  the  South  had 
left  him,  and  which  he  had  carried  on  his  back  in  a  pack 
during  his  long  northward  journey.  After  a  winter  of 
investigation  and  research  he  felt  that  he  knew  more 
curious  facts  that  any  living  man  in  the  Province  of 
Pennsylvania.  It  made  him  a  being  apart  in  his  own 
estimation,  so  he  cultivated  a  sort  of  mental  aloofness 
which  made  him  unpopular  with  white  men,  but  gave 
him  a  closer  footing  with  the  stoical  Indians. 

Occasionally  small  bands  of  redskins  stopped  at  the 
log  cabin,   where   the   Warlock   always   interrogated 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  93 

them  as  to  their  acquaintance  with  any  Indians  of  su- 
perior wisdom,  such  as  soothsayers,  diviners,  medicine 
men.  As  the  redmen  were  already  in  their  decadence, 
such  sages  were  scarce,  except  in  the  remoter  districts. 
Coming  in  contact  with  the  whites  was  ever  the  death- 
knell  of  their  spiritual  natures;  it  was  only  when  alone 
and  uncontaminated  that  they  held  converse  with  in- 
finity. 

The  strange  hermit  learned  of  a  wise  man,  but  a  very 
old  and  feeble  one,  living  on  the  banks  of  the  Ohio, 
near  the  mouth  of  Yellow  Creek,  and  to  that  region 
he  resolved  to  set  out  for  an  interchange  of  ideas  with 
the  savage  soothsayer.  Making  his  books  and  papers 
into  a  pack,  which  he  carried  like  a  knapsack,  he  started 
along  the  Pittsburg  trail  for  the  western  country.  That 
was  as  early  as  the  year  1  755,  when  Indian  warfare 
was  rife  from  the  Ohio  clear  to  the  Susquehanna  and 
the  upper  reaches  of  the  Schuylkill.  But  no  Indian 
ever  molested  the  pale-faced  hermit,  his  purposes  in  life 
were  too  much  the  same  as  the  redmen's.  They  re- 
spected him  for  his  cultivated  mind,  the  vein  of  mysti- 
cism that  was  all  too  apparent  in  his  slim,  intellectual 
countenance. 

The  hermit  was  about  twenty-three  years  of  age  at 
this  time,  tall,  gaunt,  angular,  with  a  decided  stoop  to 
his  broad  shoulders.  The  pale,  ascetic  face  was 
bearded,  which  gave  him  an  air  of  maturity,  which  he 
cultivated,  as  his  associates  were  mainly  middle-aged 
Indians. 

At  this  period  the  celebrated  Indian  queen,  the  beau- 


94  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

tiful  Alaquippa,  was  living  in  regal  grandeur  at  her 
lodge-house  near  the  mouth  of  Youghiogheny  Creek, 
in  what  is  now  Allegheny  County.  She  belonged  to 
the  Lenni-Lenape,  and  about  her  "castle"  was  clustered 
a  small  village,  mainly  made  up  of  her  armed  retainers 
and  their  families.  She  was  a  woman  of  great  beauty, 
of  ample  proportions,  and  of  about  the  same  age  as  the 
"Philosopher  of  the  Alleghenies."  She  had  been  mar- 
ried to  a  noted  warrior  named  Hushasha,  who  fell  in 
some  unnamed  battle,  but  it  was  said  that  she  had  been 
braver  than  her  husband,  that  she  mourned  very  little 
when  he  was  gone.  She  was  a  forceful  character,  an 
Indian  woman  with  a  genius  for  government  and  order 
that  was  most  unusual  in  her  day.  It  was  said  that  she 
was  interested  in  occult  matters,  feeling  herself  sur- 
rounded and  guided  by  the  spirits  of  the  dead.  It  was 
this  trait  in  her  character  that  made  the  young  hermit 
desire  to  become  acquainted  with  her.  Accordingly  he 
was  brought  to  her  village  by  an  Indian  who  acted  as 
guide  and  interpreter. 

It  was  a  case  of  love  at  first  sight,  at  least  as  far  as 
the  hermit  was  concerned,  and  there  were  many  who 
said  that  his  ardor  was  fully  reciprocated.  At  any  rate 
they  got  along  famously  together,  sitting  by  themselves 
at  the  embers  of  the  campfire  until  far  into  the  night. 
They  were  so  very  congenial,  it  is  related,  that  with  the 
little  they  knew  of  each  other's  languages  they  were 
able  to  perfectly  understand  what  each  was  saying. 

The  young  hermit  told  the  queen  that  he  was  bound 
for  the  Ohio  to  meet  an  aged  wise  man  to  learn  his 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  95 

secrets  before  he  died,  to  draw  from  him,  if  possible, 
some  of  the  mysteries  of  eternity.  Then  he  felt  he 
would  have  enough  data  to  formulate  a  philosophy  of 
existence  more  complete  and  satisfying  than  ever  before 
known  by  man.  Alaquippa  urged  him  to  return  to  her 
camp  on  his  eastward  journey  that  she  might  be  able  to 
help  him  set  out  his  system,  and  would  love  to  talk  fur- 
ther with  him  on  the  lands  beyond  the  stars.  The  bond 
of  sympathy  between  the  two  was  so  deep  that  before 
they  parted,  just  before  the  red  light  of  dawn  dyed  the 
creek  water,  he  took  the  splendid  form  of  the  queen  in 
his  arms  and  kissed  her  full  red  lips  long  and  raptur- 
ously. He  who  had  never  noticed  a  woman  before  be- 
came suddenly  adept  in  the  arts  of  love.  It  seemed  a 
mature  passion  sprung  from  his  subconscious  self. 

He  was  loath  to  leave  the  handsome  queen,  but  he 
felt  that  his  destiny  compelled  him  to  find  the  wise  man. 
So,  accompanied  by  his  guide,  whom  he  had  aroused 
from  his  slumbers,  he  started  for  the  western  wilderness. 
Alaquippa  was  wretchedly  sick  with  loneliness  after  he 
had  gone.  Though  she  had  met  many  white  men,  all 
they  thought  about  was  money  and  trading;  she  had 
never  seen  a  paleface  before  who  had  the  idealism  of 
the  Indian,  plus  the  education  of  the  white  race. 
Coupled  with  it  all,  he  had  a  certain  magnetism  and 
charm  that  no  savage  possessed.  She  counted  the  days 
until  he  would  return,  and  lost  interest  in  everything 
else  except  the  thought  of  again  being  in  his  arms. 

When  the  hermit  met  the  ancient  wise  man  by  the 
Ohio  he  found  him  a  more  unusual  being  than  he  had 


96  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

expected.  Over  a  hundred  years  old,  with  a  sparse 
white  beard,  and  almost  blind,  he  had  spent  the  greater 
part  of  his  long  life  trying  to  solve  the  riddle  of  exist- 
ence. He  had  come  to  many  important  conclusions,  but 
there  were  numerous  missing  links  to  his  chains  of  rea- 
soning that  were  made  ridiculously  simple  when  the 
hermit  from  Raystown  branch  showed  him  his  pack  of 
volumes  of  "quaint  and  curious  lore."  He  said  that  he 
could  die  happy  now,  having  found  out  all  that  he  was 
seeking,  that  he  was  deeply  thankful  to  have  met  such 
a  learned  white  man. 

For  several  days  and  nights  the  centenarian  and  the 
young  recluse  worked  over  their  systems  of  philosophy. 
They  had  many  speculations  in  common,  chief  of  which 
was  to  create  a  living  human  being  out  of  mud,  or  dead 
flesh.  The  aged  Indian  had  the  enthusiasm  of  a  Para- 
celsus on  all  such  serious  subjects,  in  which  he  was  ably 
seconded  by  the  youthful  hermit.  Taking  what  they 
both  knew,  and  backed  up  by  the  authority  of  dead  and 
gone  writers,  they  felt  that  they  had  reached  the  summit 
of  knowledge,  the  secret  of  life,  yet  now  that  they  un- 
derstood it,  all  was  so  simple  that  they  could  not  under- 
stand why  they  had  not  grasped  it  before. 

The  old  Indian  would  have  liked  the  white  man  to 
remain  with  him  and  make  some  experiments  at  the 
fountain-head  of  life,  but  the  younger  man  was  anxious 
to  return  to  Queen  Alaquippa,  his  bosom  heaving  with 
pride  at  the  thought  of  displaying  his  marvelous  discov- 
eries to  her.  But  he  promised  to  cross  the  Alleghenies 
again  the  following  season,   and  work  out  the  great 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  97 

problem  with  the  old  man  in  his  open-air  laboratory. 
The  sage,  who  acquired  a  fresh  grip  on  Hfe  since  the 
young  enthusiast's  coming,  was  comforted  at  this  prom- 
ise, and  they  parted  on  the  very  best  of  terms. 

It  was  hard  to  tell  on  the  easterly  journey  whether 
the  young  man  was  more  keyed  up  by  his  added  dis- 
coveries or  by  the  thought  of  soon  again  seeing  Ala- 
quippa.  At  any  rate  he  felt  himself  "walking  on  air" 
the  entire  distance.  The  pack  on  his  back  felt  like 
feathers,  all  was  brightness,  joy  and  hope.  By  forced 
marches  he  utilized  this  superhuman  energy  and  reached 
the  queen's  village  two  days  earlier  than  expected.  But 
it  was  none  too  soon  to  suit  the  lovesick  Alaquippa,  who 
was  nervously  pacing  up  and  down  her  private  path  by 
the  creek  side  when  he  arrived.  When  she  saw  him 
she  forgot  her  queenly  dignity,  running  forward  and 
falling  into  her  lover's  arms.  Many  of  her  retainers  on 
the  other  side  of  the  run  witnessed  this  outburst  of  af- 
fection, marveling  at  it,  for  Alaquippa  hated  white  men 
as  a  rule,  and  since  her  husband's  death  had  not  shown 
preferences  for  any  Indian.  But  she  was  a  voluptuous 
looking  young  woman,  full  of  curves  and  gracefulness, 
and  sooner  or  later  would  feel  the  call  of  a  great  love. 
Now,  apparently,  it  had  come  to  her  and  she  was  su- 
premely happy. 

After  the  first  passionate  greetings,  the  young  hermit 
proceeded  to  unfold  to  her  the  story  of  his  added  dis- 
coveries from  the  old  man  on  the  Ohio,  to  which  she 
listened  with  breathless  interest.  She  was  so  charmed 
to  have  him  with  her  that  she  forthwith  begged  him  to 


98  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

give  up  all  idea  of  going  away,  but  continue  his  studies 
in  her  village ;  in  other  words,  to  make  it  his  permanent 
home.  It  did  not  take  him  long  to  accept  this  alluring 
invitation,  as,  compared  to  his  lonely  log  cabin  on  Rays- 
town  branch,  this  spot  was  Paradise.  Here  he  would 
unfold  tlie  riddle  of  life,  applauded  and  appreciated  by 
this  beautiful  Indian  queen.  Alaquippa  asked  permis- 
sion to  build  him  a  lodge  house  to  keep  his  books  and 
paraphernalia,  which  he  granted,  and  in  a  few  days  a 
house  bigger  than  her  own  castle  had  been  run  up  under 
her  personal  supervision. 

As  he  felt  at  home,  and  desiring  to  look  more  like 
the  clean-faced  Indians  about  him,  he  shaved  off  his 
beard,  appearing  in  that  condition  at  the  queen's  castle 
one  morning.  But  to  his  surprise  she  was  not  pleased. 
As  a  bearded  frontiersman  he  had  an  individuality,  but 
he  made  a  poor-looking,  hatchet-faced  "Indian"  when 
deprived  of  his  facial  adornment.  So  he  promised  the 
tearful  queen  to  let  his  beard  grow  again,  and  never  to 
shave  close  again. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  began  in  earnest  on  his 
experiments  in  unraveling  the  secret  of  life.  He  built 
a  forge  and  a  retort,  and  his  cabin  looked  within  like 
the  cell  of  some  old-time  sorcerer  or  alchemist.  As  his 
beard  grew  and  rapidly  covered  the  hollows  in  his  pale 
cheeks,  the  hermit  chaffed  Alaquippa  by  saying  that  he 
would  soon  be  ready  to  produce  a  man  from  mud  and 
dead  flesh  who  would  be  perfect  to  the  smallest  detail, 
being  what  he  was  not,  a  handsome  man.  The  queen 
protested  that  she  thought  him  extremely  good  looking. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  99 

that  no  one  she  had  ever  seen,  or  whom  imagination 
could  conjure  up,  would  please  her  as  he  had  done. 
But  the  hermit  would  only  laugh  and  say  that  when 
his  homunculus  appeared  on  the  scene  it  would  be  the 
end  of  his  reign  as  favorite  and  friend. 

To  that  end  he  worked  all  day  and  far  into  every 
night.  Whenever  she  cared  to  visit  the  laboratory,  the 
Indian  queen  was  welcomed  there,  but  the  heat  and 
the  noxious  fumes  caused  her  to  appear  there  only  when 
there  was  a  strong  cool  breeze  blowing.  The  composi- 
tion of  the  homunculus  was  to  be  of  a  certain  kind  of 
clay  which  was  found  at  the  foot  of  banks  at  the  mouth 
of  the  creek,  mixed  with  fluid  metals,  and  the  blood  and 
flesh  of  deer,  ruffed  grouse  and  wildcats.  During  his 
period  of  preparation  the  hermit's  only  exercise  was 
trips  through  the  forests  in  search  of  these  materials, 
which  expeditions  were  certainly  strenuous  enough  for 
any  one.  During  the  last  weeks  he  never  left  his  hut 
night  or  day,  and  requested  that  no  food  be  sent  to  him, 
as  he  had  laid  in  a  stock  of  provisions  for  the  purpose. 
Alaquippa  was  very  anxious  about  him  lest  he  be  over- 
come by  fumes  or  the  arduous  task,  and  was  therefore 
relieved  every  morning  when  she  saw  the  fresh  blue 
smoke  curling  from  the  chimney  of  the  retort. 

Finally  one  night,  when  she  was  seated  by  the  creek 
listening  to  the  roar  of  the  water  as  it  made  its  final 
plunge  to  join  the  river,  the  beautiful  queen  saw  the 
door  of  the  hermit's  cabin  opening.  Out  of  the  door 
emerged  tv/o  very  tall  men.  It  was  almost  dark,  and 
she  could  not  make  out  who  they  were  until  they  came 


100  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

very  close.  One  of  them  was  the  gaunt,  bearded  her- 
mit, but  with  him  was  another  young  man  who  looked 
strangely  like  her  deceased  husband,  the  warrior  Hush- 
asha. 

Springing  to  her  feet,  and  clenching  her  nails  into 
the  palms  of  her  hands  to  make  certain  that  she  was  not 
dreaming,  she  stood  under  an  old  pine,  awaiting  their 
approach.  When  they  drew  near  the  hermit's  face  was 
wreathed  in  smiles,  but  there  was  a  blank,  wild  look  in 
the  face  of  the  youth  who  so  much  resembled  the  dead 
Hushasha.  Standing  before  her,  and  comparing  them 
feature  by  feature,  there  was  no  question  as  to  which 
of  the  two  was  the  handsomer.  The  Indian,  despite  his 
glassy  stare,  was  m.ore  harmoniously  formed  as  to  figure 
and  features. 

The  hermit  caught  Alaquippa  by  the  hand  and 
placed  it  in  the  hand  of  the  stranger,  saying:  "Here  is 
the  young  man  about  whom  I  have  spoken  to  you  so 
often." 

Meanwhile  the  Indian  youth  had  said  nothing,  but 
his  wild  gaze  was  limiting  itself  to  a  look  which  was 
clearly  one  of  admiration  for  Alaquippa,  The  hermit 
chatted  with  the  queen  for  about  half  an  hour,  then 
signaled  to  the  Indian  to  accompany  him,  and  led  him 
back  to  the  cabin,  where  he  left  him.  Then  the  hermit 
returned  to  Alaquippa  to  receive  her  deferred  congratu- 
lations. 

He  found  the  queen  seated  at  the  foot  of  the  pine, 
her  clothes  disheveled,  her  eyes  wild  and  starey.  Her 
first  words  were  that  she  had  fallen  in  a  dead  faint  after 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES 


he  had  left,  and  had  only  just  recovered  consciousness. 
TTien,  instead  of  showering  encomiums  on  him  for  hav- 
ing created  Hfe,  she  demanded  of  him  the  reason  why 
he  had  prepared  a  man  the  Hving  image  of  her  dead 
husband.  The  Warlock  was  surprised  when  he  heard 
this,  as  secretly  he  was  jealous  of  the  dead  man,  and 
of  all  beings  would  have  been  less  likely  to  create  an 
"effigy"  resembling  him. 

When  he  recovered  himself  he  said  that  it  must  have 
been  caused  by  her  thoughts  of  Hushasha  transferring 
themselves  from  her  brain  to  his  when  he  was  in  the 
heat  of  composition.  He  now  regretted  having  made 
this  manikin,  and  realized  that  his  sin  in  daring  to  usurp 
the  works  of  the  Great  Spirit  would  bring  upon  him 
dire  punishment.  He  was  even  tempted  to  run  back  to 
the  hut  and  kill  the  hateful  thing.  But  he  resolved  to 
take  what  fate  brought  uncomplainingly,  the  blood  of 
his  mystic  ancestors  was  too  pure  to  make  him  a  coward. 
But  he  went  to  his  couch  with  a  heavy  heart  that 
night. 

The  next  day  when  the  Indians  at  the  camp  saw  the 
stranger  they  thought  that  it  was  Hushasha  risen  from 
the  dead.  Some  of  them  broke  camp  and  disappeared 
in  the  forest  rather  than  live  in  the  vicinity  of  a  ghost. 
When  Alaquippa  heard  the  stranger's  voice  for  the  first 
time  it  was  exactly  like  her  dead  husband's  man- 
her  so  much  that  she  made  the  Warlock  accompany 
her  to  her  husband's  grave  in  the  buff^alo  swamp 
twenty-five  miles  away  to  make  sure  that  his  bones 
were   still    there.      Then   she   questioned   the    Indian 


102  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

closely,  but  he  was  unfamiliar  with  any  incidents 
in  Hushasha's  life.  As  the  days  passed  she  became 
more  accustomed  to  the  attractive  stranger,  and  seemed 
to  prefer  his  company  to  that  of  the  hermit.  It  was  as 
he  had  feared,  he  had  produced  a  being  fairer  than  him- 
self, who  without  trying  would  win  the  queen  away 
from  him.  If  the  hermit  had  been  able  to  suddenly 
adopt  the  ways  of  a  lover,  his  creation  of  mud,  quick- 
silver and  dead  flesh  was  even  more  adept  to  do  so. 
He  seemed  to  possess  arts  and  charms  that  the  hermit 
never  dreamed  about;  he  liked  to  have  the  queen  show 
her  preference  for  him  when  the  Warlock  was  present. 

All  this  was  very  humiliating,  so  one  night  he  arose 
from  his  couch  which  adjoined  that  where  the  stranger 
slept,  resolving  to  slip  away  forever.  His  hunting  knife 
was  in  his  belt.  He  drew  it  out,  poising  it  over  the 
throat  of  the  sleeping  creature  which  he  had  made  from 
base  materials.  He  could  have  annihilated  this  ill-got- 
ten life  and  stolen  away  in  triumph.  But  no,  he  would 
leave  him  to  work  out  his  orbitless  life  as  best  he  could, 
even  to  wedding  the  queen,  which  now  looked  inevi- 
table. Putting  the  knife  back  in  his  belt,  he  crept  over 
the  slumbering  form,  out  of  the  door  and  was  gone  into 
the  blackness  of  the  forest  night. 

Son  of  the  mountains  that  he  was,  he  had  no  trouble 
in  moving  on  in  an  easterly  direction.  He  traveled 
steadily  over  hill  and  dale,  and  through  river  and 
stream,  until  he  came  to  the  Glades  of  Laurel  Ridge, 
where  he  found  another  abandoned  settler's  cabin.  He 
had  left  behind  all  his  books  and  instruments,  want- 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  103 

ing  no  more  of  that  kind  of  scientific  research.  He 
had  a  little  money  with  him,  so  in  due  season  equipped 
himself  as  a  hunter,  and  was  happy  and  contented  in 
this  more  natural  life. 

Meanwhile  his  sudden  absence  caused  no  anxiety  or 
concern  to  the  stranger  and  Queen  Alaquippa.  They 
were  almost  glad  that  he  had  gone.  The  Indian 
bodyguards  suspected  that  he  had  been  murdered  by 
the  mysterious  newcomer,  but  dared  make  no  com- 
ment. 

It  was  not  many  days  before  the  infatuated  queen  re- 
solved to  marry  the  stranger.  She  broached  the  subject 
to  him,  and  he  was  willing.  The  wedding  day  was  set 
for  the  following  morning.  Contrary  to  custom,  the 
love-crazed  woman  would  have  the  ceremony  per- 
formed with  pomp  and  display.  Medicine  men  and 
priests  were  sent  for;  it  was  to  be  a  memorable  occa- 
sion. But  when  Alaquippa  arose  on  her  "wedding 
morn"  it  was  reported  that  the  stranger  was  nowhere  to 
be  found.  Had  he  disappeared  in  the  night  like  the 
hermit?  The  henchmen  had  looked  in  his  cabin;  it 
was  deserted.  The  queen  screamed  as  if  in  agony 
when  she  heard  the  news,  and  ran  about  like  one  de- 
mented. She  rushed  into  the  cabin  where  she  had  seen 
the  stranger  retire  the  night  before.  It  was  empty  save 
for  a  big  buffalo  skin  on  the  floor,  and  the  hermit's 
abandoned  books,  phials  and  pots  on  a  shelf.  Look- 
ing at  the  buffalo  robe  mere  closely,  she  saw  on  it  a 
little  drop  of  quicksilver,  a  few  spots  of  mud,  and  what 
looked  to  be  some  scraps  of  dried  meat.     She  shook 


104  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

the  robe  and  they  flew  out  in  every  direction  on  the 
floor. 

The  truth  then  dawned  on  her,  either  through  some 
spell  cast  by  the  absent  hermit,  or  because  his  allotted 
span  of  life  had  expired,  the  homunculus  had  resolved 
to  his  elements,  had  evaporated.  He  had  never  been 
much  more  than  "such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of,"  his 
stay  on  earth  must  needs  be  brief.  To  weep  for  him 
would  be  like  crying  for  the  jack-o'lantern  which  had 
often  crossed  her  father's  campground  when  she  was  a 
child.  It  was  no  use,  the  dream  was  past,  she  had  ex- 
changed a  living  man  for  a  phantom,  and  must  reap 
the  whirlwind.  So  sadly  she  wended  her  way  back  to 
her  castle,  where  she  bravely  informed  her  henchmen 
that  there  would  be  no  wedding,  that  they  must  inter- 
cept the  priests  and  wisemen  and  merrymakers ;  instead, 
she  would  journey  alone  to  the  big  swamp  and  strew 
myrtle  on  Hushasha's  grave.  It  is  said  that  for  the  rest 
of  her  life  Alaquippa  maintained  an  even  more  impen- 
etrable reserve  where  men  were  concerned. 

Meanwhile  the  hermit  was  pursuing  the  even  tenor 
of  his  way  at  the  Glades.  He  prospered  as  a  hunter 
and  trapper  and  began  to  clear  and  farm  a  few  acres 
of  ground.  A  family  of  Germans  who  settled  on  the 
east  side  of  the  ridge  not  far  from  the  present  village  of 
Mishler  had  an  attractive  daughter  whom  he  courted, 
and  whom  in  a  couple  of  years  he  married.  The  union 
was  a  happy  one,  quite  a  good-sized  family  of  children 
being  bom. 

But  as  the  years  went  by  scientific  research  and  mys- 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  105 

ticism  again  claimed  the  strange  man.  But  this  time  it 
was  to  prove  by  his  happiness  among  them  the  special 
divinity  of  mountains.  It  was  on  this  weighty  subject, 
a  sort  of  geomancy  that  he  was  engaged  when  Dr. 
Schoepf  visited  him  in  1  783.  And  there  were  many 
authorities  for  such  a  quest,  for  had  not  the  Phoe- 
nicians, among  others,  believed  that  mountains  were 
sacred  as  being  nearer  to  the  gods? 


106  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 


VIII. 
SHANEY  JOHN. 

A  TALE  FROM  SADDLER's  RUN. 

«^LEM"  HERLACHER,  most  genial  of  deer 
i  hunters  of  the  Seven  Mountains,  who  knows 
every  foot  of  ground  from  the  Rag  Hollow  to 
the  Buffalo  Path,  is  one  of  the  best  posted  men  in  Penn- 
sylvania on  the  legends  of  the  long  ago.  He  has  some- 
thing interesting  to  tell  about  every  historic  character, 
some  fragment  which  otherwise  would  be  lost  to  future 
generations.  He  probably  knows  more  about  the  old 
Indian,  Shaney  John,  and  his  hunting  school  on  Sad- 
dler's Run  than  any  person  living. 

Saddler's  Run  is  a  stream  flowing  into  the  Juniata 
below  Huntingdon,  and  although  this  hunting  school 
flourished  until  little  more  than  a  century  ago,  it  is  a 
forgotten  fact  to  the  vast  majority  of  Pennsylvanians 
and  might  just  as  well  never  have  existed.  Yet  in  its 
day  it  exercised  an  important  influence  on  the  young 
men  of  the  Juniata  country. 

The  historian,  Jones,  mentions  Shane)^  John  as  being 
one  of  the  last  three  Indians  to  linger  in  the  Juniata 
Valley.  The  other  two  were  Captain  Logan  and  Job 
Chillaway.  The  name  "Shaney  John"  is  of  obscure 
origin,  though  by  some  the  first  part  is  said  to  be  of 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  107 

Dutch  origin,  a  title  given  to  him  by  certain  of  the  earHer 
settlers  because  of  his  good  looks.  This  is  borne  out 
by  the  fact  that  he  was  a  very  handsome  Indian.  Others 
say  that  his  name  was  in  reality  Shawnee  John.  When 
he  first  came  to  the  Juniata  Valley  and  took  up  his  resi- 
dence several  miles  from  the  mouth  of  Saddler's  Run, 
he  was  described  as  tall,  erect,  with  clear-cut  features 
and  piercing  black  eyes.  As  he  was  a  boon  companion 
of  Job  Chillaway,  who  settled  in  the  Juniata  country 
about  the  same  time,  it  is  to  be  inferred  that  he  saw  serv- 
ice in  the  Colonial  wars,  but  under  some  other  name 
than  Shaney  John.  Perhaps  some  warrior  with  a 
Shawnee  cognomen,  who  performed  deeds  of  valor  and 
self-sacrifice,  whose  name  is  a  household  word  to  read- 
ers of  history,  was  none  other  than  Shaney  John.  But 
as  far  as  this  story  goes  it  only  concerns  Shaney  John, 
the  hunter  and  teacher  of  hunting. 

From  his  earliest  boyhood  this  wily  Indian  was  said 
to  have  been  skilled  with  bow  and  rifle.  He  was  the 
only  Indian  who  exceeded  the  white  borderers  in  feats 
of  marksmanship.  On  one  occasion,  when  on  the  Kan- 
awha River  in  West  Virginia  he  engaged  in  a  friendly 
shooting  match  with  Lewis  Wetzel,  and  outpointed  that 
noted  frontiersman.  Wetzel,  who  was  of  a  revengeful 
nature,  never  forgave  the  savage  for  defeating  him,  and 
spoke  of  it  to  his  dying  day. 

There  was  a  strain  of  mysticism  to  Shaney  John  that 
only  his  most  intimate  friends  knew.  He  believed  in 
the  occult,  and  in  a  later  day  might  have  been  called  a 
witch  doctor.     It  was  he  who  was  sent  for  to  kill  the 


108  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

famous  white  stag,  known  as  the  White  Ghost,  which 
defied  the  hunters  in  White  Deer  Valley,  in  Union 
County,  for  a  dozen  years.  It  was  well  known  to  the 
great  Nimrod  that  such  a  deer  had  a  compact  with  the 
Machtando  or  devil,  consequently  could  not  be  killed 
with  a  bullet  of  base  metal  like  lead  or  iron,  or  with  a 
stone  or  slate  arrow.  Only  a  silver  dart  or  bullet  could 
lay  him  low.  So  the  hunter  informed  the  delegation  of 
desperate  pioneers  who  waited  on  him  at  his  humble 
cabin  that  it  would  take  him  a  month's  time  to  make 
preparations  to  slay  the  unconquered  hart.  He  would 
set  a  date  to  be  present,  and  before  dark  he  would  have 
the  White  Ghost  a  dead  reality. 

After  the  visitors  had  departed  he  started  for  the 
North  alone,  in  the  direction  of  the  Bald  Eagle  Moun- 
tains. He  traveled  along  Jack's  Mountain  to  what  is 
now  Milroy,  where  the  crossed  the  Seven  Mountains, 
past  the  Mammoth  Spring,  now  Bellefonte,  and  thence 
to  the  Bald  Eagle's  Nest,  an  Indian  village  and  home 
of  the  famous  chief.  Bald  Eagle,  a  short  distance  east 
of  the  present  town  of  Milesburg.  He  followed  the  val- 
ley to  what  is  now  Pine  Station,  Clinton  County,  where 
he  ascended  the  Bald  Eagle  Mountain,  remaining  on 
the  summit  for  several  days.  As  there  was  a  good 
spring  in  the  Little  Valley,  directly  back  of  the  moun- 
tain's crest,  he  made  himself  very  comfortable  in  his 
eyrie. 

After  completing  his  work  on  the  mountain  he  fol- 
lowed the  old  Indian  path  along  the  summits  of  the 
Bald  Eagle  chain  to  below  the  present  site  of  Williams- 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  109 

port,  where  he  crossed  over  into  White  Deer  Valley. 
There  he  reported  at  the  home  of  one  of  the  leading 
hunters  of  the  valley,  named  Simon  Crosgrove,  who 
lived  at  the  foot  of  the  White  Deer  Mountain.  As 
Shaney  John's  word  was  as  good  as  his  bond,  several 
other  hunters  had  assembled  at  the  cabin,  and  all  hands 
gave  him  a  royal  welcome,  which  wound  up  with  a  wild 
turkey  supper.  Crosgrove  was  a  great  hunter,  and  his 
shanty,  decorated  with  the  horns  of  elk  and  deer  and  the 
hides  of  wolves  and  panthers,  was  a  familiar  memory 
to  several  generations  of  dwellers  in  the  romantic  valley 
of  White  Deer.  After  supper  the  group  of  hunters 
asked  the  Indian  to  show  them  the  weapon  with  which 
he  planned  to  kill  the  White  Ghost.  Shaney  John  told 
them  that  while  nothing  would  please  him  better,  there 
was  a  superstition  against  showing  a  weapon  before 
using  it;  when  he  extracted  it  from  the  dead  body  of 
the  stag  would  be  soon  enough. 

Early  the  next  morning  he  sallied  forth  alone  from 
the  Crossgrove  cabin,  his  favorite  bow  and  a  single 
arrow  wrapped  in  a  piece  of  wildcat  skin  under  one 
arm.  When  he  left  the  stump-dotted  clearing  and  en- 
tered the  depths  of  the  forest  he  paused  and  laid  his 
precious  bundle  on  a  fallen  tree  trunk.  He  then  took 
from  one  of  his  pockets  a  single  silver  arrow  point, 
beautifully  chiseled.  He  had  cut  it  from  a  pocket  of 
pure  silver,  the  whereabouts  of  which  was  known  only 
to  the  Indians, — but  it  was  somewhere  on  the  summit 
of  the  Bald  Eagle  Mountain  near  the  Lycoming 
County  line.     Then  he  took  a  small  bottle  from  an- 


no  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

ether  pocket,  removed  the  plug  and  poured  some  of  the 
greenish  Hquid  contents  over  the  arrow's  tip.  When  it 
had  dried,  he  reached  for  his  arrow  handle  and  deftly 
fastened  the  poisoned  point  to  it.  He  was  now  ready 
to  match  wits  with  the  White  Ghost. 

Taking  his  position  behind  a  pine  tree  near  the  stag's 
favorite  crossing  at  the  edge  of  a  cornfield,  he  resolved 
to  wait  until  the  animal  appeared.  It  was  a  tedious 
vigil,  for  as  he  expected  the  famous  deer  did  not  emerge 
from  his  thicket  until  past  sunset.  As  the  evening 
shadows  fell  he  suddenly  thrust  his  magnificent  antlered 
head  from  the  brush  at  the  far  side  of  the  cornfield. 
Evidently  he  scented  some  danger, — a  stag  must  be 
quick-witted  to  escape  an  army  of  hunters  a  dozen  years 
in  a  narrow  valley,  for  he  stopped  and  gave  a  snort  of 
defiance.  Then  he  leaped  out  into  the  cornfield  among 
the  shocks.  As  he  turned  himself  broadside  Shaney 
John  let  go  the  arrow,  which  sped  through  the  air,  its 
silvery  tip  shining  in  the  waning  light  like  a  flash  of 
hghtning.  The  aim  was  true,  for  it  caught  the  stag  in 
the  flank,  penetrating  deeply.  The  animal  turned  his 
head  around,  giving  a  nervous  start,  as  he  felt  the  prick 
of  the  dart,  acting  as  if  an  insect  had  bitten  him.  De- 
tecting nothing,  he  stood  still,  with  head  erect.  It  was 
a  sight  which  Shaney  John  never  forgot.  The  huge 
deer,  with  a  rack  of  horns  that  had  twelve  points  on 
each  antler,  with  coat  like  snow,  posed  there,  uncon- 
scious of  his  onrushing  doom.  At  the  end  of  a  couple 
of  minutes  the  royal  head  drooped  a  little,  as  if  he  was 
sleepy.     Then  the  hunter  moved  out  of  the  forest  into 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  111 

plain  sight.  The  stag  noticed  him  and  came  forward, 
as  if  to  do  battle,  but  with  unsteady  tread.  It  was  a 
distance  of  one  hundred  yards  to  where  the  Indian 
stood,  but  the  deer  evidently  determined  to  reach  his 
foe.  As  he  drew  near  he  lowered  his  formidable  head, 
as  big  as  an  elk's,  as  if  to  charge,  but  the  splendid 
crown  of  cuitlers  "wabbled"  and  when  he  was  within 
almost  a  horn's  thrust  of  Shaney  John  he  dropped  over 
dead  against  a  corn  shock. 

The  Indian  left  the  carcass  lay  while  he  walked  over 
to  the  Crosgrove  home  to  bring  his  friends  to  the  scene. 
When  he  returned  to  the  spot,  accompanied  by  a  score 
of  comrades,  including  several  friendly  Indians  who  re- 
sided in  the  neighborhood,  it  was  found  that  the  deer 
had  turned  coal  black  in  color.  The  animal  was  bled 
and  opened,  but  the  flesh  had  become  rancid.  The 
grand  antlers  crumbled  in  the  hunter's  grasp  when  he 
tried  to  roll  the  carcass  over.  All  present  agreed  that 
the  White  Ghost  was  a  "g/ispoo^"  sure  enough.  The 
ghost  of  this  deer,  coal  black,  is  said  to  haunt  the  valley 
to  this  day.  But  Shaney  John  had  landed  the  prize. 
His  fame  as  the  slayer  of  the  elusive  white  hart  would 
last  as  long  as  there  were  hunting  annals  in  White  Deer 
Valley.  Before  leaving  the  spot,  he  dug  his  arrow  out 
of  the  dead  stag's  flank,  wiped  it  off  on  his  coat,  and 
presented  it  to  Simon  Crosgrove.  It  remained  in  the 
Crosgrove  family  for  several  generations,  a  priceless 
souvenir. 

Next  morning  he  returned  homeward  along  the 
White  Deer  range,  a  proud  and  happy  Indian.     But  in 


112  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

all  sections  of  the  country  he  was  not  so  popular  as  in 
the  White  Deer  Valley.  Some  of  the  more  narrow- 
mmded  settlers  along  Jack's  Mountain  objected  to  an 
Indian  residmg  in  their  neighborhood.  They  were 
jealous  because  he  killed  so  much  game,  and  wanted 
an  excuse  to  drive  him  away,  as  was  done  with  Captain 
Logan  at  the  Big  Spring  at  Tyrone.  To  make  their 
dislike  plausible  they  said  that  the  redman  caused  un- 
easiness to  their  women  and  children,  that  he  was  wan- 
dering around  in  the  woods  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and 
night,  that  undoubtedly  he  would  do  some  harm.  Sev- 
eral times  his  camps  on  Saddler's  Run  were  purposely 
pre-empted  by  white  men,  and  he  was  forced  to  move 
further  up  stream. 

But  Shaney  John  resolved  to  remain  in  the  Juniata 
country  a  few  years  longer.  To  attain  this  end  he  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  starting  a  "hunting  school,"  where 
the  3'^oung  sons  of  the  settlers  could  be  taught  to  hunt 
"Indian  style,"  or  else  with  rifles  or  muskets.  Being 
tolerably  well  versed  in  the  English  language,  he  com- 
posed a  clever  little  speech  which  he  recited  at  each 
farmhouse  where  he  suspected  there  was  hostility 
against  him.  If  he  could  remain  in  the  locality  he 
would  teach  the  boys  to  be  real  Indian  hunters  and  kill 
lots  of  game,  so  that  they  could  always  have  a  kindly 
m.emory  for  Shaney  John.  There  was  a  deserted  field 
or  common  at  the  mouth  of  Saddler's  Run  where  he 
proposed  to  set  up  his  targets  and  begin  the  term  the 
following  week. 

The  pioneer  boys  took  to  his  idea  with  enthusiasm. 


NEAR  THE  SITE  OF  SHANEY  JOHN'S  CABIN 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  113 

They  knew  that  he  was  the  greatest  shot  in  all  the  val- 
leys tributary  to  the  Juniata;  it  would  be  worth  while 
to  give  an  afternoon  a  week  to  learn  his  secrets  and  arts. 
So  on  the  date  appointed,  the  wornout  field  was  filled 
with  mountain  boys  clad  in  their  picturesque  suits  of 
buckskin  or  homespun.  All  carried  weapons  of  some 
kind,  long  rifles  of  the  pre-revolutionary  days,  or  old 
flint  locks,  while  some  had  home-made  bows  and  ar- 
rows. Shaney  John  was  there,  smiling  and  affable, 
with  a  friendly  word  for  every  one.  The  boys  were 
going  to  win  for  him  his  right  to  remain  by  his  beloved 
Juniata. 

The  lessons  given  were  so  unique  and  edifying  that 
they  were  never  to  be  forgotten.  The  quaint  atmos- 
phere of  it  all,  the  amount  of  knowledge  imparted, 
made  every  lad  an  apt  pupil.  Every  pupil  had  a  good 
word  to  say  of  Shaney  John  when  he  returned  that 
night  to  his  cabin  or  blockhouse.  The  women  were  in- 
terested in  what  their  boys  had  to  say,  and  quite  a  few 
of  them  then  and  there  revised  their  previous  low  opin- 
ions of  the  canny  old  redman.  The  hunting  school  had 
come  to  stay;  its  fame  spread  into  adjacent  valleys  and 
pupils  came  from  as  far  west  as  Tuckahoe.  Shaney 
John  was  now  a  fixture  in  the  Juniata  Valley;  no  one 
dared  oust  him  now. 

As  his  students  progressed  in  marksmanship  or  arch- 
ery he  took  them  on  still  hunts,  and  showed  them  some 
truly  marvelous  shots  at  moving  deer,  squirrels  or  birds. 
He  tracked  several  panthers  during  the  winter,  killing 
them  by  impaling  them  with  sharp  stakes,  the  real  old 


114  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

Indian  fashion.  And  most  wonderful  of  all,  he  ran 
down  wolves  and  deer  on  the  deep  snow,  following 
them  on  snow  shoes.  If  he  had  been  alive  to-day  he 
would  have  been  the  leader  of  the  Boy  Scout  move- 
ment. Stories  connected  with  his  exploits  multiplied 
and  spread,  making  his  name  like  that  of  a  patron  saint 
of  outdoor  life. 

But  as  he  grew  older,  despite  his  popularity  on  the 
Juniata,  he  longed  for  the  society  of  members  of  his 
own  race.  Roving  Indians  were  always  welcomed  at 
the  birch-bark  cabin  which  he  constructed  on  the  edge 
of  his  shooting  range,  at  the  mouth  of  Saddler's  Creek. 
But  few  of  them  were  likeable  characters,  or  inclined 
to  remain  long  in  one  locality.  The  Indian  settlements 
at  the  forks  of  the  Susquehanna  were  long  since  broken 
up,  only  a  few  camps  on  the  West  Branch  and  on  Bald 
Eagle  Creek  remained.  At  the  Bald  Eagle's  Nest,  at 
the  confluence  of  Spring  Creek  with  the  Bald  Eagle,  a 
few  Indian  families  resided,  and  to  be  with  them 
Shciney  John's  heart  was  set  in  the  sunset  of  his  life. 
He  postponed  again  and  again  breaking  the  news  of  the 
abandonment  of  his  hunting  school  to  his  pupils;  he 
loved  them  all,  he  loved  his  work. 

But  at  length  the  desire  to  be  with  his  kind  became 
so  strong  that  one  evening  he  gathered  "his  boys,"  as 
he  called  them,  about  him,  and  told  them  of  his  plans. 
The  young  lads  were  heartbroken,  and  begged  him  to 
reconsider  his  decision,  but  when  they  saw  that  he  was 
obdurate  they  said  no  more,  but  went  their  way  sadly 
and  silently.     That  night  a  dozen  of  the  boys  met  to- 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  115 

gether  and  collected  a  purse  of  money  which  they  pre- 
sented to  the  old  redman  next  morning.  One  of  them 
made  a  nice  little  address,  in  which  he  thanked  the  In- 
dian for  teaching  them  all  so  m.uch  and  hoped  that  since 
he  insisted  on  leaving  them,  he  would  come  back  to  see 
them  once  in  a  while  The  Indian  was  visibly  affected, 
and  promised  to  return  to  the  Juniata  country  once  a 
year  at  least,  "while  his  strength  held  out." 

The  next  moming  he  started  out  on  foot  across  the 
mountains,  carrying  on  his  back  his  favorite  rifles  and 
bows.  He  was  welcomed  by  the  Indian  families  at  the 
Bald  Eagle's  Nest,  and  settled  dov/n  to  live  a  life  of 
contentment.  He  had  enough  money  to  last  him  for 
life, — a  few  dollars  only, — but  as  he  lived  by  hunting, 
fishing  and  trapping,  but  a  mite  sufficed.  He  was 
greatly  missed  by  the  young  boys  in  the  Juniata  country, 
and  they  watched  for  his  visits  like  the  modern  lad  does 
for  Christmas.  When  he  returned  he  was  given  a 
hearty  welcome,  which  brought  gladness  to  his  old 
heart.  It  is  related  that  on  the  occasion  of  one  of  his 
visits  he  came  upon  a  number  of  his  former  pupils,  now 
well-growTi  young  men,  holding  a  shooting  match  a 
survival  of  their  Scottish  ancestors'  Popinjay,  on  a  plain 
east  of  Shade  Mountain,  a  few  miles  from  the  present 
tov/n  of  McAllisterville.  The  marksmen  felt  honored 
to  have  the  great  Indian  hunter  with  them  and  to  their 
surprise,  despite  his  age,  he  hit  the  gaudy  effigy  of  a 
bird,  which  they  used  as  target,  at  all  distances,  as  well 
as  the  best  of  them. 

As  the  afternoon  progressed,  the  marksmen  were  so 


116  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

engrossed  with  the  contests  that  they  did  not  notice  the 
form  of  a  four-hundred  pound  red  bear  emerging  from 
the  forest  at  the  point  nearest  the  mountain.  The  huge 
brute  was  half  way  across  the  plain  before  even  the 
dogs  spied  him,  and  to  old  Shaney  John  was  due  the 
honor  of  the  discovery.  The  aged  Indian  whistled 
and  the  marksmen  looked  up,  seeing  the  bear  almost  in 
their  midst.  Instantly  a  state  of  panic  reigned  among 
them,  as  they  dropped  their  guns  and  bows  and  scam- 
pered off  to  points  of  safety.  Their  dogs,  which  became 
too  scared  to  bark,  ran  with  them.  Not  that  the  sports- 
men were  afraid  of  the  bear,  for  almost  every  one  of 
them  had  killed  such  a  bear  in  his  time,  but  the  sudden- 
ness of  the  brute's  appearance  in  an  open  plain,  awoke 
latent  instincts  of  self-preservation. 

Of  all  the  bears  of  Pennsylvania  the  red  bear  was 
the  only  species  known  to  charge.  Sometimes  when 
the  two  varieties  of  black  bear,  the  "hog  bear"  and  the 
"dog  bear,"  have  been  wounded  or  their  young  mo- 
lested, they  attack  hunters,  but  they  will  take  a  great 
deal  of  provocation  before  resisting.  But  the  red  bear 
will  attack  out  of  pure  hatefulness,  which  he  did  on 
this  occasion.  He  had  come  out  of  the  forest  with 
lowered  head,  and  slow  gait,  evidently  on  some  errand 
best  understood  by  himself,  but  the  noise  of  the  panicky 
sportsmen  and  their  dogs  roiled  his  temper,  and  he  lifted 
his  head,  coming  on  at  a  trot.  Shaney  John,  whose 
presence  of  mind  was  proverbial,  let  him  advance,  so 
close  in  fact  that  some  of  the  marksmen  hidden  behind 
rocks  were  getting  ready  to  shoot,  until  he  was  within 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  117 

a  dozen  paces  of  him.  Then  he  raised  a  small  bow 
which  he  always  carried,  and  sent  a  dart  at  the  monster, 
not  to  kill  but  to  wound  him.  As  the  arrow  penetrated 
back  of  the  right  shoulder  the  Indian  turned  around 
and  called  to  the  boys,  "don't  shoot,  I  am  going  to  have 
some  fun." 

By  the  time  he  had  finished  speaking,  the  bear,  limp- 
ing terribly,  was  directly  in  front  of  him,  and  raising 
up  on  its  hind  feet.  The  Indian  had  dropped  his  bow, 
and  throwing  himself  forward  seized  the  bear  by  the 
throat  with  both  hands,  and  before  the  creature  knew 
where  he  was  at  he  was  sprawling  on  the  turf,  with 
Shaney  John  on  top  of  him.  The  old  Indian  tussled 
with  the  big  brute  for  several  minutes,  during  which 
time  he  outpointed  his  adversary.  When  he  felt  that 
he  had  clearly  demonstrated  his  superiority  he  calmly 
reached  for  his  hunting  knife  and  stabbed  the  bear 
through  the  heart.  With  a  groan,  the  defeated  savage 
expired,  while  Shaney  John  danced  a  jig  over  his 
carcass. 

At  this  time  the  Indian  could  not  have  been  less  than 
seventy  years  of  age.  Those  who  witnessed  this  exhi- 
bition of  nerve  and  resource  concluded  that  if  all  In- 
dians were  like  him  they  were  the  greatest  race  of 
hunters  that  the  world  has  ever  known.  The  young 
men  crowded  about  their  old  teacher  after  the  exploit, 
showering  him  with  congratulations.  Then  the  bear 
was  skinned  and  a  fire  lighted,  and  that  night,  as  the 
moon  shone  down  on  the  plain,  a  happy  circle  could 
be  seen  around  the  ruddy  campfire,   feasting  off  the 


118  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

biggest  red  bear  that  Shade  Mountain  ever  harbored. 

During  his  residence  at  Bald  Eagle's  Nest,  Shaney 
John  devoted  more  of  his  time  to  hunting  than  he  had 
for  a  number  of  years.  Most  of  his  expeditions  were 
in  the  mountains  adjacent  to  his  camp,  as  he  had  a  ready 
sale  for  his  deer  and  bear  skins  from  the  fur  traders  who 
penetrated  the  valley  in  goodly  numbers.  As  years 
advanced  he  sought  to  perform  those  deeds  of  daring 
that  had  brought  him  fame  in  his  youth.  In  fact,  there 
was  no  young  "buck"  in  all  the  camps  at  the  headwaters 
of  Bald  Eagle  who  could  equal  his  prowess  as  a  deer 
slayer.  His  favorite  manner  of  excelling  in  the  chase 
was  to  kill  his  deer  "without  arrow,  powder  or  ball." 
The  method  was  to  locate  the  tracks  of  the  animals  in 
the  snow,  and  selecting  one,  usually  a  giant  stag,  follow 
it  on  snowshoes.  When  the  snow  was  deep  the  deer 
could  not  travel  very  fast,  and  he  was  often  able  to 
overtake  them  after  a  short  chase.  But  not  infrequently 
they  sought  sanctuary  in  the  deep  pools  or  swift-flowing 
streams.  But  nothing  could  daunt  Shaney  John.  Into 
the  icy  water  he  would  plunge,  clothes  and  all,  reach 
the  deer  by  several  deft  strokes,  for  he  was  a  powerful 
swimmer,  cut  its  throat,  and  drag  it  to  shore. 

But  the  exposure  from  these  midwinter  immersions 
began  to  tell  on  him;  he  was  a  very  old  man.  Similar 
exploits  in  icy  waters  cut  off  the  life,  it  is  well  known, 
of  his  white  pupil,  Joshua  Roush,  the  greatest  deer 
hunter  of  the  Seven  Brothers,  at  the  early  age  of  fifty- 
five  years.  He  had  taught  Roush  his  methods  while 
living  at  the  "Nest."     Shaney  John  became  stiff  and 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  119 

rheumatic,  his  big  hands  were  knotted,  but  he  refused 
to  lead  a  calm  existence  about  the  camps.  *'Why  Hve 
Hke  a  woman?"  was  his  favorite  answer  to  his  well- 
wishers.  "Better  to  die  like  a  man."  "Nothing  lives 
long  except  the  earth  and  the  mountains." 

There  were  many  in  the  Bald  Eagle  Valley  who  for 
years  remembered  his  last  hunt.  It  was  in  January  and 
he  had  trailed  a  huge  stag  across  the  ridges  in  the  di- 
rection of  Bald  Eagle  Valley.  It  was  a  raw,  treacher- 
ous day,  and  the  old  hunter  was  much  overheated  and 
overtaxed.  He  had  managed  to  keep  close  behind  the 
deer,  but  could  not  prevent  its  running  down  the  moun- 
tain in  the  direction  of  the  creek.  All  through  the 
chase  the  Indian  was  hoping  that  the  deer  would  get 
"crusted,"  but  the  animal,  by  keeping  on  points  and 
ridges,  cleverly  avoided  these  pitfalls.  Down  the  side 
hill  he  plunged,  and  through  the  present  town  of  Miles- 
burg.  A  party  of  young  Indians  and  white  boys, 
among  the  latter  "Josh"  Roush,  who  had  been  spearing 
fish-otters,  were  passing  along  the  creek,  when  right  be- 
low the  meeting  of  Spring  Creek  and  the  Bald  Eagle, 
where  there  is  a  deep  hole,  the  frenzied  stag,  with 
Shaney  John  literally  at  his  heels,  took  sanctuary.  Sev- 
eral of  the  lads  raised  their  guns,  but  the  old  hunter 
shouted,  "Please  don't  shoot,"  and  with  these  words 
plunged  into  the  frigid  water.  By  rapid  swimming  he 
reached  the  deer,  catching  him  by  the  beam  of  one  of 
the  antlers.  The  animal  gave  a  lunge,  and  in  some  way 
the  old  hunter's  knife  was  struck  from  his  hand  and 
sank  to  the  bottom.     The  Indian  then  determined  to 


120  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

strangle  the  deer  before  it  reached  shore,  and  wrestled 
and  grappled  with  it,  while  the  water  assumed  the  foam 
and  activity  of  a  whirlpool.  Several  times  the  Indian 
"went  under,"  but  each  time  coming  up  he  bravely 
contmued  the  battle.  In  a  contest  between  man  and 
beast,  the  persistent  man  must  win,  so  thought  Shaney 
John,  as  he  fought  the  stag  to  a  standstill  and  eventually 
throttled  him.  A  cheer  went  up  as  the  old  man  dragged 
the  dying  deer  on  shore,  and  borrowing  a  knife  cut  its 
throat. 

Then  Shaney  John  had  a  severe  chill,  but  he  man- 
aged to  reach  his  camp  and  light  a  fire  to  dry  his  clothes. 
By  night  he  was  a  very  sick  man,  exhibiting  symptoms 
of  pneumonia.  He  sank  rapidly  during  the  following 
day,  and  by  night  was  in  a  dying  condition.  Yet  his 
marvelous  constitution  kept  him  alive  until  the  next 
morning,  when  he  expired.  His  last  words  were,  "My 
hunting  days  are  just  beginning." 

His  age  was  estimated  at  more  than  ninety  years. 
He  was  buried  in  a  hillock  near  the  giant  hollow  but- 
tonwood  tree  that  long  had  been  the  "Nest"  of  Chief 
Woapalanne  or  Bald  Eagle,  and  thus  departed  a 
hunter  of  a  type  that  is  no  more,  and  in  commenting 
upon  whose  deeds  of  valor  it  can  truly  be  said,  "There 
were  giants  in  those  days." 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  121 


IX. 

THE  HART'S  HORN. 

A  LEGEND  FROM  HARE's  VALLEY. 

DOWN  in  Hare's  Valley,  on  the  banks  of  Hare 
Creek,  a  family  of  Shawnee  Indians  Hngered  on 
for  some  years  after  most  of  their  race  had  been 
dispossessed  from  the  neighboring  regions.  Consisting 
of  a  mother,  two  daughters  and  a  son,  their  peaceable 
qualities  enabled  them  to  remain  unmolested  until  such 
time  as  some  v/hite  man  would  covet  their  little  clearing 
and  spring.  Then  they  would  have  to  move  on, — 
somewhere, — no  one  would  care  where,  as  long  as  they 
made  room  for  the  conquering  race. 

Although  it  was  policy  not  to  show  it,  the  older  gen- 
eration of  Indians  deeply  resented  their  dislodgment 
from  their  home  of  centuries.  They  had  sweet  memo- 
ries, sentiment,  attachment  for  the  familiar  scenes,  with 
a  keen  perception  of  the  beautiful,  and  as  a  rule  were 
not  a  roving,  nomad  race,  as  careless  historians  are  wont 
to  depict  them.  True  they  went  on  the  warpath,  hunted 
and  trapped,  and  followed  the  migrations  of  the  bison, 
but  there  was  always  some  secluded  little  valley  or 
creekside  that  was  home.  There  generation  after  gen- 
eration lived  and  died,  the  bones  of  their  beloved  an- 
cestors were  on  the  hill,  they  were  a  part  of  the  soil  so  to 


122  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

speak,  they  hated  to  move  on.  By  whose  authority 
were  they  evicted;  only  that  of  a  parchment  signed  by 
men  who  got  their  power  from  a  king  who  lived  thou- 
sands of  miles  away,  across  an  ocean.  It  all  was  so 
unjust  that  it  is  small  v/onder  that  hatred  of  the  white 
usurpers  became  a  part  of  their  natures. 

The  Indian  woman  whose  home  was  in  a  quiet 
meadow  on  Hare  Creek  was  named  Mahaque,  her  hus- 
band, a  peace-loving  redman  had  been  shot  down  in 
cold  blood  by  a  wandering  white  trader.  No  excuse 
had  ever  been  given,  though  the  case  had  been  presented 
to  the  Proprietary  Government  through  Col.  George 
Croghan.  It  was  pigeon-holed  and  allowed  to  be  for- 
gotten. Small  wonder  that  the  old  squaw  disliked  the 
white  race  collectively.  Her  eldest  daughter  Elahne, 
was  a  most  beautiful  girl.  She  was  paler  than  most 
Indians,  slender  and  lithe,  a  perfect  artist's  dream..  She 
was  unconscious  of  her  beauty,  which  made  it  all  the 
more  dangerous  in  her  watchful  mother's  estimation. 

Living  in  the  secluded  valley,  the  old  squaw  hoped 
that  the  girl  would  escape  the  sight  of  the  white  men, 
who  coveted  every  attractive  Indian  girl  they  saw. 
Generally  they  did  not  make  good  husbands,  secretly 
despising  their  Indian  wives.  But  Indian  suitors  were 
scarce.  The  best  type  were  always  on  the  warpath, 
and  had  no  chance  to  marry  and  settle  down.  The 
worthless  drunkards,  victims  of  the  white  men's  vices, 
who  hung  around  the  camps,  drinking  themselves  to 
death  with  poisonous  adulterated  whisky  were  undesir- 
able as  husbands  as  the  white  men. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  123 

Mahaque  selected  as  her  daughter's  future  husband 
a  middle-aged  warrior,  a  widower  named  Chemook. 
He  had  an  ugly  scar  over  one  eye,  several  of  his  fingers 
had  been  bitten  off  by  a  white  man,  he  was  prematurely 
toothless.  He  hated  the  white  m.en  as  much  as  did  old 
Mahaque,  and  with  as  good  reason.  He  dabbled  in 
the  black  art,  and  in  an  earlier  day  would  have  been 
called  a  medicine  man.  He  led  a  solitary  life  in  a  log 
cabin  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  meadow  from  the 
home  of  Mahaque  and  her  family.  He  had  watched 
Elahne  grow  up,  had  secretly  admired  her,  and  when 
she  reached  a  marriageable  age  he  proposed  the  subject 
to  her  delighted  mother. 

As  most  Indian  marriages  were  arranged  by  the  par- 
ents, the  girl  might  have  accepted  him  as  her  first  chance 
had  she  not  seen  a  more  attractive  looking  white  man 
named  Alexander  McEwing.  1  his  young  pioneer  was 
a  reliable  fellow,  his  greatest  desire  being  to  find  a  home 
for  himself,  marry  and  rear  a  family.  He  had  not 
thought  of  choosing  a  wife  from  among  the  Indians  until 
his  eyes  rested  on  the  fair  Elahne.  He  had  heard  of 
the  "Indian  meadow,"  as  the  flat  where  old  Mahaque 
lived  was  called,  and  had  com.e  to  the  valley  to  have  a 
look  at  it.  If  it  suited  he  would  put  the  government 
forces  to  work  to  oust  the  Indian  family, — though  if 
there  was  anything  in  the  law  of  "eminent  domain" 
they  were  the  lawful  owners,  having  lived  there  for  five 
generations.  But  when  he  saw  Elahne  one  morning 
on  her  knees  stirring  the  campflre  his  heart  was  touched; 
he  would  have  her  along  with  the  meadow. 


124  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

Surely  it  was  a  lovely  spot,  full  of  long  grass  and 
lined  with  willows,  an  orchard  at  one  end  of  it,  a  rip- 
pling stream  forming  a  semi-circle  about  it.  He  could 
not  understand  why  no  other  white  man  had  taken  it. 
Knowing  a  few  words  of  the  Shawnee  language,  he 
scraped  up  an  acquaintance  with  Elahne.  As  he  was 
the  best  looking  man  she  had  seen,  far  better  looking 
than  young  warriors  with  scars  and  warpaint,  she  en- 
tered eagerly  into  the  conversation.  During  the  talk 
old  Mahaque  appeared,  but  she  remained  in  the  back- 
ground, viewing  the  apparent  flirtation  with  disfavor. 

When  he  went  away,  McEwing  promised  to  return 
and  pitch  his  camp  in  an  unoccupied  corner  of  the 
meadow.  Old  Mahaque  waited  until  he  was  out  of 
sight  before  she  severely  admonished  her  beautiful  and 
trembling  daughter.  She  gave  her  to  understand  that 
she  would  beat  her  half  to  death  if  she  ever  spoke  to 
the  white  wretch  again,  and  previous  experience  made 
the  girl  realize  that  the  old  squaw  meant  what  she  said. 

"You  are  to  marry  Chemook,  the  good  Chemook, 
and  if  you  notice  this  white  man  our  old  friend  may 
change  his  mind." 

In  order  to  have  peace  and  quiet  Elahne  said  that 
she  would  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  the  paleface, 
adding  that  probably  he  would  never  come  that  way 
again,  but  secretly  hoping  that  he  would  keep  his  word 
and  come.  That  night  old  Mahaque  took  Chemook 
aside  and  told  him  to  prepare  to  be  married  in  a  fort- 
night. The  old  Indian  grinned;  it  was  nice  to  have 
sugh  an  ardent  matchmaker  enlisted  in  his  behalf. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  125 

Meanwhile  McEwing,  whose  permanent  camp  was 
on  the  Juniata,  not  far  from  the  mouth  of  Licking 
Creek,  was  making  arrangements  to  move  his  belong- 
ings to  Hare's  Valley.  He  engaged  a  couple  of  stal- 
wart Indians  to  assist  him  in  moving,  which  was  to  be 
done  overland  across  the  Black  Log  and  Jack's  Moun- 
tains. 

Peace  reigned  in  the  secluded  little  meadow  until' 
old  Mahaque  met  the  young  frontiersman  with  his 
bearers  arriving  as  if  for  a  permanent  stay.  The  old 
squaw  scowled  at  them,  and  longed  to  ask  him  by 
what  right  he  was  moving  into  their  midst,  but  dearly 
bought  experience  taught  her  to  ask  no  questions  of 
white  m.en.  They  were  predatory;  they  were  mur- 
derous, their  ways  were  past  finding  out.  It  would 
now  be  no  use  to  forbid  Elahne  from  seeing  the  young 
fellow;  all  she  could  do  would  be  to  hurry  up  her  mar- 
riage to  old  Chemook. 

This  old  Indian  dropped  his  long  pipe  when  he  saw 
the  new  arrival.  He  scented  a  rival  from  afar;  he 
could  coerce  his  way  against  any  young  buck,  but 
against  a  white  man — never.  He  hurried  across  the 
meadow,  lifting  his  red  cloak  like  a  woman  would  her 
skirts  as  he  stepped  through  the  tall  lush  grass.  Quickly 
confiding  his  fears  to  Mahaque,  the  pair  held  a  council 
of  war.  The  marriage  must  take  place  that  very  night, 
no  matter  how  unwilling  the  bride  might  be.  Ma- 
haque shook  her  grizzled  old  head. 

*T  cannot  force  her  to  marry  you  with  your 
rival  a  stone's  throw  away;  she  might  call;  he  would 


126  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

come  to  her  rescue   and  murder  us   all   like   dogs." 

Then  her  voice  fell,  as  she  put  her  arm  over  old 
Chemook's  shoulder  and  drew  him  closer.  "Can't  you 
cast  a  spell  of  some  kind  over  that  white  devil,  change 
him  into  an  animal  or  something?" 

Chemook's  beady  eyes  gleamed  with  sudden  inspi- 
ration. "Of  course  I  can,"  he  gloated,  "why  didn't  I 
think  of  that  before.  By  sunset  the  white  rascal  will 
be  a  hart,  and  out  of  reach  of  harming  us." 

Then  he  strode  away  across  the  meadow  chuckling 
in  fiendish  triumph.  He  entered  his  cabin,  and  closing 
the  door  tightly  sat  down  to  meditation,  to  conjure  up 
the  evil  powers  of  the  unseen  world.  And  he  was 
quickly  surrounded  by  wicked  hordes,  created  from  his 
own  unclean  consciousness.  For  man  can  will  evil  just 
as  well  as  good. 

Meanwhile  young  McEwing,  after  paying  off  his 
bearers,  walked  with  them  a  short  distance  on  their 
homeward  journey.  After  parting  with  them  at  a  ford 
he  started  back  to  his  new  camp  site.  He  had  not  gone 
more  than  a  few  steps  when  he  felt  strange  sensations, 
like  violent  spasms,  which  agitated  him  from  head  to 
foot.  His  skull  seemed  bursting,  his  entire  body  itched 
and  he  sank  down  on  the  grass  in  utter  misery.  He 
seemed  to  fall  asleep  just  for  a  minute,  during  which 
time  he  saw  Elahne's  face  and  much  bright  sunshine. 
When  he  awoke  he  looked  down  and  about  him.  He 
was  no  longer  a  human  being,  but  a  stag.  Walking  to  a 
deep  pool  in  the  stream  he  looked  in  its  mirrored  depths. 
His  surmise  was  correct.     He  had  been  transformed 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  127 

into  a  huge  helmeted  stag.  He  sought  to  give  way  to 
a  cry  of  anger,  but  it  only  came  from  his  lips  as  a  rau- 
cous snort  such  as  he  had  often  heard  from  stags  when 
suddenly  put  up  from  their  brake.  The  realization  of 
it  all  was  horrifying,  so  he  took  to  his  heels  and  gal- 
loped like  a  riderless  horse  up  and  down  the  creek  bank. 

As  night  set  in  he  began  to  feel  hungry,  yet  his 
physical  desires  were  only  for  twigs  and  grass.  He 
became  thirsty  and  drank  from  the  pool  as  if  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  it  all  his  life.  When  he  felt  sleepy 
he  instinctively  retired  to  a  dense  laurel  thicket  and 
laid  down. 

At  dusk  old  Chemook  emerged  from  his  camp,  a 
malicious  twinkle  in  his  little  shoe-button  eyes.  Pick- 
ing up  his  cloak  like  an  old  woman,  he  tramped  across 
the  meadow  to  where  old  Mahaque  was  seated  by  her 
campfire.  In  an  undertone  he  asked  the  whereabouts 
of  Elahne,  her  brother  and  her  sister.  .Mahaque  told 
him  that  they  had  gone  for  a  stroll  along  the  brookside, 
that  they  would  not  be  back  for  an  hour. 

Then  Chemook  guffawed  out  loud:  'Tve  fixed  the 
white  boy,"  he  said  amid  convulsions  of  laughter. 
"He's  now  a  big  stag,  running  around  in  the  woods; 
he'll  never  trouble  us  again." 

Mahaque  leaned  over  and  took  him  by  the  hand, 
which  she  pressed  warmly  in  token  of  her  appreciation 
of  his  powers  of  sorcery.  The  old  pair  talked  together 
until  Elahne,  her  brother  and  sister  returned.  The  boy 
and  the  younger  girl  seemed  in  high  spirits,  but  Elahne 
was  silent  and  hung  her  head.    The  boy  went  on  to  tell 


128  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

with  a  great  display  of  enthusiasm  how  an  enormous 
hart  had  stood  across  their  path,  and  instead  of  run- 
ning away  had  hcked  Elahne's  hand!  Chemook  and 
Mahaque  exchanged  glances.  A  new  peril  was  immi- 
nent. They  pretended  not  to  be  interested  in  the  nar- 
rative, and  urged  the  young  people  to  go  to  bed. 

When  they  had  retired  the  old  woman  spoke  as  fol- 
lows: **You  made  a  happy  stroke  when  you  changed 
the  white  man  into  a  deer,  but  if  he  is  going  to  hover 
around  our  camp  all  the  time  Elahne  will  never  come 
to  our  way  of  thinking.  I  can  tell  by  her  manner  that 
already  she  suspects  some  connection  between  her  lover 
and  that  tame  stag." 

Chemook  thought  a  moment.  Then  he  replied,  say- 
ing :  "There  is  one  thing  left,  and  that  will  settle  mat- 
ters forever.  I  can  kill  that  stag  with  a  silver  bullet. 
If  he  was  in  human  form  I  would  have  to  be  delivered 
up  as  a  murderer.  But  I  can  kill  all  the  deer  I  have 
a  mind  to." 

Mahaque  nodded  her  head  approvingly,  clapping 
her  big  hands.  Then  Chemook  said  that  he  would 
have  to  make  a  journey  over  to  Sinking  Creek  Valley, 
where  the  Indians  had  a  silver  mine.  He  would  col- 
lect the  silver  and  forge  it  into  a  bullet  upon  his  return. 
So  bright  and  early  next  morning  he  started  on  his  long 
tramp  to  Sinking  Valley.  That  day  Mahaque  ordered 
her  family  to  remain  within  her  sight,  she  was  afraid 
that  the  tame  deer  might  harm  the  young  people,  deer 
were  always  treacherous! 

The  beautiful  Elahne  seeing  or  hearing  nothing  of 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  129 

her  lover,  and  noting  with  concern  that  his  pile  of  pots 
and  hunting  implements  lay  untouched  where  the  In- 
dian bearers  had  laid  them  in  the  meadow,  concluded 
that  the  big  deer  was  none  other  than  the  missing  lover. 
Her  mother's  anxiety  to  keep  her  away  from  the  ani- 
mal clinched  this  impression.  Nothing  was  seen  or 
heard  of  the  stag  until  sundown,  when  Elahne,  who 
had  gone  to  the  creek  to  clean  some  fish,  heard  the 
handsome  hart  breaking  through  the  brush  across  the 
brook.  It  came  out  in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  where 
simultaneously  it  was  seen  by  old  Mahaque.  For  a 
squaw  she  was  a  good  shot,  so  grasping  a  rifle  she 
aimed  and  fired  at  the  deer.  As  the  report  was  heard, 
Elahne  screamed,  falling  over  in  a  swoon,  while  the 
deer  stood  unhurt  in  the  middle  of  the  rippling  current. 
Leaving  her  daughter  to  recover  as  best  she  could,  the 
squaw  fired  at  the  impertinent  stag  again  and  again,  but 
with  no  effect.  Throwing  her  rifle  down  with  a  thud, 
she  muttered:  "How  foolish  of  me  to  try  and  hit  a 
spook  deer." 

When  Elahne  came  to  her  senses  the  deer  was  by 
her  side,  licking  her  face.  There  was  a  look  of  recog- 
nition in  her  eyes,  so  he  threw  up  his  fine  antlered  head 
and  crossed  the  stream  with  a  single  bound.  Ma- 
haque's  first  idea  was  to  beat  the  girl  soundly  when 
she  returned  to  the  camp,  but  on  second  thought  con- 
cluded that  it  would  be  better  to  keep  her  in  good  humor 
until  Chemook  returned.  Then  the  troublesome  hart 
could  be  put  out  of  harm's  way. 

Elahne  suspected  nothing  from  her  elderly  suitor's 


130  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

absence,  as  he  frequently  went  away  for  days  at  a  time 
on  elk  or  deer  hunts.  When  he  came  back  he  said 
that  he  had  had  very  good  luck,  game  was  never  more 
plentiful.  He  confided  to  Mahaque  that  he  had  se- 
cured some  silver  at  the  head  of  Elk  Run,  and  would 
speedily  mould  it  into  a  bullet.  This  he  did  that  night, 
and  waited  for  the  propitious  moment.  About  sun- 
down he  strolled  over  to  Mahaque's  camp,  his  rifle 
nonchalantly  laid  across  his  shoulder.  Elahne  was 
walking  pensively  by  the  brook,  secretly  hoping  that 
the  noble  stag  would  return,  yet  wondering  why  her 
mother  allowed  her  so  much  liberty  after  the  episode 
on  the  night  before.  She  did  not  notice  Chemook,  else 
her  suspicions  would  have  been  aroused  ere  it  was  too 
late.  Yet  her  heart  was  sad  to  the  breaking  point. 
Her  lover  for  some  reason  had  become  a  deer.  Would 
he  always  retain  that  shape  and  be  lost  to  her,  or  was  it 
only  a  temporary  whim  of  his  to  test  her  love,  and  not 
a  spell  cast  by  the  jealous  Chemook.  Many  and  bitter 
were  the  sobs  she  gulped  back,  as  she  resolved  to  meet 
her  tragic  situation  with  Indian  fortitude. 

While  thus  walking  in  sorrow,  she  heard  the  crack- 
ing of  twigs  on  the  opposite  bank,  in  the  same  spot 
where  the  stag  had  appeared  the  previous  night.  Pull- 
ing herself  together,  a  happy  light  came  into  her  dark 
eyes,  a  smile  on  her  pale  lips.  Soon  the  antlered  head 
of  the  forest  monarch  appeared,  and  with  a  leap  he 
crossed  the  creek,  and  stood  at  her  side  attentively. 
Over  by  the  camp,  Chemook  had  seen  the  hart  come 
into  sight.     It  would  be  a  difficult  shot  to  make  to  kill 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  131 

the  deer,  yet  not  hit  the  girl  by  its  side.  If  he  killed 
both,  it  would  be  "love's  labor  lost."  So  he  nerved 
himself  for  a  supreme  effort.  Whispering  prayers  to 
the  powers  of  evil,  he  sighted  and  pulled  the  trigger. 
There  was  a  loud  report,  and  more  smoke  euid  odor  of 
brimstone  than  was  generally  the  case.  The  silver  bul- 
let sped  its  course,  but  a  quick  move  of  the  stag's  head 
had  saved  it  from  penetrating  the  skull;  instead  it  hit 
one  of  the  brow  tines.  Had  it  been  any  other  kind  of 
a  deer  it  might  have  knocked  him  down,  and  he  would 
have  speedily  gotten  up  and  decam.ped,  but  with  this 
ghost  deer  it  was  different.  He  fell  over  stone  dead. 
The  noise  of  the  gun  and  the  collapse  of  the  deer  ter- 
rified the  frail  Elahne  so  much  that  she  fell  over  the 
dead  deer  unconscious. 

Fearing  that  he  had  hit  the  girl,  Chemook  cleared 
the  space  to  her  side  almost  as  quickly  as  the  deer 
could  have  done  it.  He  was  relieved  to  find  the  girl 
alive,  the  deer  dead.  He  had  merely  struck  a  brow 
tine,  yet  blood  was  pouring  off  the  nick  he  had  made 
in  it.  As  he  did  not  want  to  be  troubled  by  Elahne's 
lamentations,  he  left  her  alone  until  he  could  finish  with 
the  deer.  Taking  his  hunting  axe  from  his  belt,  by  a 
swift  blow  he  struck  off  the  top  of  the  skull  which  held 
the  horns.  Then  he  dragged  the  carcass  a  short  dis- 
tance up  the  creek  and  sunk  it  in  a  deep  hole.  Return- 
ing to  the  girl  he  picked  up  the  antlers  and  hung  them 
on  a  stab  on  a  young  oak  tree.  Then  he  threw  water 
in  the  girl's  face  and  restored  her  to  consciousness. 
When  she  recovered,  and  seeing  so  much  blood  around 


132  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

and  the  horns  on  the  tree,  she  reahzed  what  had  hap- 
pened. She  fell  on  her  knees  before  Chemook,  im- 
ploring him  to  leave  her  alone,  that  she  would  die 
rather  than  marry  him,  and  calling  him  a  murderer,  a 
coward  and  a  thief. 

The  aged  Indian  strode  away,  as  he  realized  that  she 
was  not  herself  in  such  an  hysterical  outburst.  "She 
will  be  all  right  in  the  morning,"  said  old  Mahaque 
gleefully,  as  she  congratulated  Chemook  on  his  clever 
shot. 

But  the  girl's  nervous  system  had  been  terribly  af- 
fected. She  lay  all  night  in  the  tall  grass,  muttering 
to  herself  and  moaning.  When  she  did  not  return  by 
breakfast  time  Mahaque  considered  that  it  was  time  to 
end  her  foolishness,  so  picking  up  a  club  she  went  after 
her.  She  had  only  taken  a  few  steps  when  she  heard 
a  commotion  on  the  other  side  of  the  meadow.  Three 
strange  white  men  were  standing  over  McEwing's 
abandoned  belongings,  and  talking  to  Chemook  in 
angry  tones.  From  his  gestures  she  could  note  that 
they  were  accusing  him  of  withholding  a  knowledge  of 
the  young  man's  whereabouts,  and  the  old  savage  was 
pleading  ignorance.  But  the  upshot  of  it  was  that  one 
of  the  men,  a  big,  tall,  blonde  youth,  and  McEwing's 
elder  brother,  by  the  way,  seized  Chemook  by  his  cloak, 
making  him  a  prisoner.  Then  the  party  led  him  across 
the  meadow  to  Mahaque's  camp.  They  interrogated 
the  squaw,  but  getting  no  satifaction  from  her,  placed 
her  son,  who  was  ignorant  of  the  entire  transaction, 
under  arrest.     Before  they  departed  Elahne  looked  up 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  133 

and  saw  them,  but  she  felt  too  dazed  to  arise  and  drag 
herself  over  to  the  scene  of  the  inquisition. 

As  the  burly  white  men  went  away  with  their  cap- 
tives, one  of  them  remarked  that  they  would  put  them 
in  Carlisle  jail.  That  word  struck  terror  to  Mahaque. 
as  no  Indian  who  entered  there  ever  came  back.  Sob- 
bing, she  followed  the  party  down  the  run,  protesting 
that  none  of  them  knew  where  McEwing  was,  and  beg- 
ging for  their  release.  It  was  not  until  one  of  the  fron- 
tiersmen, who,  losing  his  temper,  pointed  his  loaded 
rifle  at  her,  did  she  turn  back. 

It  appeared  that  McEwing  when  he  moved  into 
Hare's  Valley  had  told  his  family  that  he  would  be 
back  in  a  couple  of  days  for  some  ammunition  that  he 
was  expecting  from  Lancaster,  and  his  non-appearance 
had  caused  the  sallying  forth  of  the  search  party. 

When  Mahaque  returned  to  her  camp  she  found 
Elahne  and  her  sister  sitting  dejectedly  by  the  bumt- 
out  hearth.  TTiey  all  exchanged  glances,  it  would  be 
best  to  say  no  more,  all  had  been  losers  by  the  old 
squaw's  avarice.  They  would  have  to  eke  out  their 
lives  as  best  they  could  in  a  manless  camp,  for  Che- 
mook  and  the  young  buck  were  gone  forever.  And 
there  is  no  record  that  the  two  prisoners  ever  got  to  Car- 
lisle jail  or  any  other  jail.  Either  they  tried  to  escape 
en  route  and  were  shot  down,  or  else  their  captors  were 
self-constituted  Regulators  who  escorted  them  to  a 
quiet  nook  and  executed  them.  But  nothing  more  was 
ever  heard  of  old  Chemook  and  Mahaque's  son.  They 
vanished  as  if  the  earth  had  swallowed  them. 


134  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

TTie  old  squaw's  manner  changed  after  this  holo- 
caust. She  became  gentler  and  more  patient.  With 
her  two  daughters  she  cooked  and  fished  and  wove. 
Elahne  and  her  sister  became  proficient  as  huntresses, 
keeping  the  modest  larder  supplied  with  game.  The 
white  traders  and  hunters  became  well  acquainted  with 
the  three  lonely  Indian  women,  and  none  were  base 
enough  to  molest  them. 

Eventually  the  younger  girl  married  a  white  man 
named  Cantrill,  who  squatted  on  the  spot  selected  by 
the  unlucky  youth  McEwing,  and  appropriated  the  en- 
tire meadow.  But  poor  Elahne  never  married,  and 
most  of  her  beauty  was  melted  away  in  tears.  Out  at 
the  brookside  she  securely  nailed  the  dead  hart's  antlers 
to  the  oak  tree,  which  still  dripped  blood  from  the  shat- 
tered brow  tine.  It  seemed  to  be  her  dead  lover  griev- 
ing his  heart's  blood  away  for  her,  so  why  should  she 
not  grieve  in  return?  It  seemed  a  shame  to  allow  this 
precious  blood  to  run  away.  So  she  fashioned  a  gourd 
like  a  cup  to  receive  it,  and  placed  it  at  the  foot  of  the 
tree  to  catch  the  drip.  There  the  small  red  drops  fell 
day  and  night,  winter  and  summer.  And  yet  the  gourd 
placed  below  never  seemed  to  fill.  Every  evening,  fair 
or  stormy,  the  bereaved  girl  would  go  out  and  sit  be- 
fore the  tree,  thinking  of  how  near  she  had  come  to 
tasting  true  happiness.  Yet  deep  as  was  her  grief,  she 
did  not  want  to  die.  She  wished  to  remain  always  in 
the  vicinity  of  the  bleeding  hart's  horn,  which  was 
pouring  out  its  deep  essence  for  her. 

For  long  and  weary  years  she  visited  the  oak  trcQ, 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  135 

long  after  old  Mahaque  had  been  laid  away  under  the 
Indian  apple  trees  at  the  foot  of  the  meadow,  and  her 
younger  sister  had  become  grandm.other  to  a  sturdy 
race.  And  when  she  passed  away  she  was  buried  un- 
der the  tree,  with  the  gourd  as  the  sole  marker  beneath 
the  antlers. 

As  years  went  by  the  thrifty  oak  aggrandized  in 
girth  until  it  grew  over  and  around  the  horns,  com- 
pletely imbedding  them  in  its  capacious  heart.  And 
if  the  horn  bleeds  to-day  its  drip  is  inward,  hidden  com- 
pletely, and  for  the  years,  as  it  is  truthfully  said  that 
there  is  nothing  so  secure  and  all-resisting  as  "hearts 
of  oak." 


36  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 


X. 

NITA-NEE. 

A  TRADITION  OF  A  JUNIATA  MAIDEN. 

ONE  of  the  last  Indians  to  wander  through  the 
Juniata  Valley,  either  to  revive  old  memories  or 
merely  to  hunt  and  trap,  his  controlling  motive 
is  not  certain,  was  old  Jake  Faddy.  As  he  was  sup- 
posed to  belong  to  the  Seneca  tribe,  and  spent  most  of 
his  time  on  the  Coudersport  Pike  on  the  border  line  be- 
tween Clinton  and  Potter  Counties,  it  is  to  be  surmised 
that  he  never  lived  permanently  on  the  Juniata,  but  had 
hunted  there  or  participated  in  the  bloody  wars  in  the 
days  of  his  youth.  He  continued  his  visits  until  he 
reached  a  very  advanced  age.  Of  a  younger  genera- 
tion than  Shaney  John,  he  was  nevertheless  well  ac- 
quainted with  that  unique  old  redman,  and  always 
spent  a  couple  of  weeks  with  him  at  his  cabin  on  Sad- 
dler's Run. 

Old  Jake,  partly  to  earn  his  board  and  partly  to 
show  his  superior  knowledge,  was  a  gifted  story  teller. 
He  liked  to  obtain  the  chance  to  spend  the  night  at 
farmhouses  where  there  were  aged  people,  and  his 
smattering  of  history  would  be  fully  utilized  to  put  the 
older  folks  in  good  humor. 

For   while    the   hard-working    younger    generations 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  137 

fancied  that  history  was  a  waste  of  time,  the  old  people 
loved  it,  and  fought  against  the  cruel  way  in  which  all 
local  tradition  and  legend  was  being  snuffed  out.  If 
it  had  not  been  for  a  few  people  carrying  it  over  the 
past  generation,  all  of  it  would  now  be  lost  in  the  whirl- 
pool of  a  commercial,  materialistic  age.  And  to  those 
few,  unknown  to  fame,  and  of  obscure  life  and  resi- 
dence, is  due  the  credit  of  saving  for  us  the  wealth  of 
folklore  that  the  noble  mountains,  the  dark  forests,  the 
wars  and  the  Indians,  instilled  in  the  minds  of  the  first 
settlers.  And  there  is  no  old  man  or  woman  living  in 
the  wilderness  who  is  without  a  story  that  is  ready  to 
be  imparted,  and  worthy  of  preservation.  But  the 
question  remains,  how  can  these  old  people  all  be 
reached  before  they  pass  away?  It  would  take  an 
army  of  collectors,  working  simultaneously,  as  the 
Grim  Reaper  is  hard  at  work  removing  these  human 
landmarks  with  their  unrecorded  stories. 

Out  near  the  heading  of  Beaver  Dam  Run,  at  the 
foot  of  Jack's  Mountain,  stands  a  very  solid-looking 
stone  farmhouse,  a  relic  of  pioneer  days.  Its  earliest 
inhabitants  had  run  counter  to  the  Indians  of  the  neigh- 
borhood for  the  possession  of  the  beavers  whose  dams 
and  "cabins"  were  its  most  noticeable  feature  clear 
to  the  mouth  of  the  stream,  and  later  for  the  otters 
who  defied  the  white  annihilators  a  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury longer.  Beaver  trapping  had  made  the  stream  a 
favorite  rendezvous  for  the  red  men,  and  their  camp- 
grounds at  the  springs  near  the  headwaters  were 
pointed  out  until  a  comparatively  recent  date. 


138  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

But  one  by  one  the  aborigines  dropped  away,  until 
Jake  Faddy  alone  upheld  the  traditions  of  the  race. 
There  were  no  beavers  to  quarrel  over  in  his  day,  con- 
sequently his  visits  were  on  a  more  friendly  basis.  The 
old  North  of  Ireland  family  who  occupied  the  stone 
farmhouse  was  closely  linked  with  the  history  of  the 
Juniata  Valley,  and  they  felt  the  thrill  of  the  vivid  past 
whenever  the  old  Indian  appeared  at  the  kitchen  door. 
As  he  was  always  ready  to  work  and,  what  was  better, 
a  very  useful  man  at  gardening  and  flowers,  he  was  al- 
ways given  his  meals  and  lodging  for  as  long  as  he 
cared  to  remain.  But  that  was  not  very  long,  as  his 
restless  nature  was  ever  goading  him  on,  and  he  had 
"many  other  friends  to  see,"  putting  it  in  his  own  lan- 
guage. He  seemed  proud  to  have  it  known  that  he 
was  popular  with  a  good  class  of  white  people,  and  his 
ruling  passion  may  have  been  to  cultivate  these  asso- 
ciations. On  several  occasions  he  brought  some  of  his 
sons  with  him,  but  they  did  not  seem  anxious  to  live 
up  to  their  father's  standards.  And  after  the  old  man 
had  passed  away  none  of  this  younger  generation  ever 
came  to  the  Juniata  Valley. 

The  past  seemed  like  the  present  to  Jake  Faddy, 
he  was  so  familiar  with  it.  To  him  it  was  as  if  it  hap- 
pened yesterday,  the  vast  formations  and  changes  and 
epochs.  And  the  Indian  race,  especially  the  eastern 
Indians,  seemed  to  have  played  the  most  important  part 
in  those  titanic  days.  It  seemed  so  recent  and  so  real 
to  the  old  redman  that  his  stories  were  always  interest- 
ing.   The  children  also  were  fond  of  hearing  him  talk ; 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  139 

he  had  a  way  of  never  becoming  tiresome.  Every 
young  person  who  heard  him  remembered  what  he 
said.  There  would  have  been  no  break  in  the  "apos- 
toHc  succession"  of  Pennsylvania  legendary  lore  if  all 
had  been  seated  at  Jake  Faddy's  knee. 

Of  all  his  stories,  by  odds  his  favorite  one,  dealt 
with  the  Indian  maiden,  Nita-nee,  for  whom  the  fruit- 
ful Nittany  Valley  and  the  towering  Nittany  Moun- 
tain are  named.  This  Indian  girl  was  born  on  the 
banks  of  the  lovely  Juniata,  not  far  from  the  present 
town  of  Newton  Hamilton,  the  daughter  of  a  powerful 
chief.  It  was  in  the  early  days  of  the  world,  when 
the  physical  aspect  of  Nature  could  be  changed  over 
night  by  a  fiat  from  the  Gitchie-Manitto  or  Great 
Spirit.  It  was  therefore  in  the  age  of  great  and  won- 
derful things,  before  a  rigid  world  produced  beings 
whose  lives  followed  grooves  as  tight  and  permanent 
as  the  gullies  and  ridges. 

During  the  early  life  of  Nita-nee  a  great  war  was 
waged  for  the  possession  of  the  Juniata  Valley.  The 
aggressors  were  Indians  from  the  South,  who  longed 
for  the  scope  and  fertility  of  this  earthly  Paradise. 
Though  Nita-nee's  father  and  his  brave  cohorts  de- 
fended their  beloved  land  to  the  last  extremity,  they 
were  driven  northward  into  the  Seven  Mountains  and 
beyond.  Though  they  found  themselves  in  beautiful 
valleys,  filled  with  bubbling  springs  and  teeming  with 
game,  they  missed  the  Blue  Juniata,  and  were  never 
wholly  content.  The  father  of  Nita-nee,  who  was 
named  Chun-Eh-Hoe,  felt  so  humiliated  that  he  only 


140  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

went  about  after  night  in  his  new  home.  He  took 
up  his  residence  on  a  broad  plain,  not  far  from  where 
State  College  now  stands,  and  should  be  the  Indian 
patron  of  that  growing  institution,  instead  of  Chief 
Bald  Eagle,  who  never  lived  near  there  and  whose 
good  deeds  are  far  outweighed  by  his  crimes. 

Chun-Eh-Hoe  was  an  Indian  of  exact  conscience. 
He  did  his  best  in  the  cruel  war,  but  the  southern  In- 
dians must  have  had  more  sagacious  leaders  or  a  bet- 
ter esprit  de  corps.  At  any  rate  they  conquered.  Chun- 
Eh-Hoe  was  not  an  old  man  at  the  time  of  his  defeat, 
but  it  is  related  that  his  raven  black  locks  turned  white 
over  night.  He  was  broken  in  spirit  after  his  down- 
fall and  only  lived  a  few  years  in  his  new  home.  His 
widow,  as  well  as  his  daughter,  Nita-nee,  and  many 
other  children,  were  left  to  mourn  him.  As  Nita-nee 
was  the  oldest,  she  assumed  a  vicereineship  over  the 
tribe  until  her  young  brother,  Wo-Wi-Na-Pe,  should 
be  old  enough  to  rule  the  councils  and  go  on  the  war- 
path. 

The  defeat  on  the  Juniata,  the  exile  to  the  northern 
valleys  and  the  premature  death  of  Chun-Eh-Hoe  were 
to  be  avenged.  Active  days  were  ahead  of  the  tribes- 
men. Meanwhile  if  the  southern  Indians  crossed  the 
mountains  to  still  further  covet  their  lands  and  liberties, 
who  should  lead  them  to  battle  but  Nita-nee.  But  the 
Indian  vicereine  was  of  a  peace-loving  disposition.  She 
hoped  that  the  time  would  never  come  when  she  would 
have  to  preside  over  scenes  of  carnage  and  slaughter. 
She  wanted  to  see  her  late  father's  tribe  become  the 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  141 

most  cultured  and  prosperous  in  the  Indian  world,  and 
in  that  way  be  revenged  on  their  warlike  foes:  "Peace 
hath  its  victories," 

But  she  was  not  to  be  destined  to  lead  a  peaceful 
nation  through  years  of  upward  growth.  In  the  Juni- 
ata Valley  the  southern  Indians  had  become  over- 
populated;  they  sought  broader  territories,  like  the 
Germans  of  to-day.  They  had  driven  the  present  oc- 
cupants of  the  northern  valleys  out  of  the  Juniata  coun- 
try, they  wanted  to  again  drive  them  further  north. 

Nita-nee  did  not  want  war,  but  the  time  came  when 
she  could  not  prevent  it.  The  southern  Indians  sought 
to  provoke  a  conflict  by  making  settlements  in  the  Bare 
Meadows,  and  in  some  fertile  patches  on  Tussey  Knob 
and  Bald  Top,  all  of  which  were  countenanced  in 
silence.  But  when  they  murdered  some  peaceable 
farmers  and  took  possession  of  plantations  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountains  in  the  valley  of  the  Karoondinha, 
then  the  mildness  of  Nita-nee's  cohorts  came  to  an  end. 
Meanwhile  her  mother  and  brother  had  died,  Nita-nee 
had  been  elected  queen. 

Every  man  and  boy  volunteered  to  fight;  a  huge 
army  was  recruited  over  night.  They  swept  down 
to  the  settlements  of  the  southern  Indians,  butchering 
every  one  of  them.  They  pressed  onward  to  the  Bare 
Meadows,  and  to  the  slopes  of  Bald  Top  and  Tussey 
Knob.  There  they  gave  up  the  population  to  fire  and 
sword.  Crossing  the  Seven  Mountains,  they  formed 
a  powerful  cordon  all  along  the  southerly  slope  of  the 
Long   Mountain.      Building  block  houses   and   stone 


142  JUNIATA   MEMORIES 

fortifications — some  of  the  stonework  can  be  seen  to 
this  day — they  could  not  be  easily  dislodged. 

The  southern  Indians,  noticing  the  flames  of  the 
burning  plantations,  and  hearing  from  the  one  or  two 
survivors  of  the  completeness  of  the  rout,  were  slow  to 
start  an  offensive  movement.  But  as  Nita-nee's  forces 
showed  no  signs  of  advancing  beyond  the  foot  of  Long 
Mountain,  they  mistook  this  hesitancy  for  cowardice, 
and  sent  an  attacking  army.  It  was  completely  de- 
feated in  the  gorge  of  Laurel  Run,  above  Milroy,  and 
the  right  of  the  northern  Indians  to  the  Karoondinha 
and  the  adjacent  valleys  was  signed,  sealed  and  deliv- 
ered in  blood.  The  southern  Indians  were  in  turn 
driven  out  by  other  tribes;  in  fact,  every  half  century 
or  so  a  different  race  ruled  over  the  Juniata  Valley. 
But  in  all  those  years  none  of  the  Juniata  rulers  sought 
to  question  the  rights  of  the  northern  Indians  until 
1635,  when  the  Lenni-Lenape  invaded  the  country  of 
the  Susquehannocks  and  were  decisively  beaten  on  the 
plains  near  Rock  Springs,  in  Spruce  Creek  Valley,  at 
the  Battle  of  the  Indian  Steps. 

As  Nita-nee  wanted  no  territorial  accessions,  she 
left  the  garrisons  at  her  southerly  forts  intact,  and  re- 
tired her  main  army  to  its  home  valleys,  where  it  was 
disbanded  as  quickly  as  it  came  together.  All  were 
glad  to  be  back  to  peaceful  avocations,  none  of  them 
craved  glory  in  war.  And  there  were  no  honors  given 
out,  no  great  generals  created.  All  served  as  private 
soldiers  under  the  direct  supervision  of  their  queen.  It 
was  the  theory  of  this  Joan  of  Arc  that  by  eliminating 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  143 

titles  and  important  posts  there  would  be  no  military 
class  created,  no  ulterior  motive  assisted  except  pa- 
triotism. The  soldiers  ser'/ing  anonymously,  and  for 
their  country's  need  alone,  would  be  ready  to  end  their 
military  duties  as  soon  as  their  patriotic  task  was 
done. 

Nita-nee  regarded  soldiering  as  a  stem  necessity, 
not  as  an  excuse  for  pleasure  or  pillage,  or  personal 
advancement.  Under  her  there  was  no  nobility,  all 
were  on  a  common  level  of  dignified  citizenship.  Every 
Indian  in  her  realm  had  a  task,  not  one  that  he  was 
born  to  follow,  but  the  one  which  appealed  to  him 
mostly,  and  therefore  the  task  at  which  he  was  most 
successful.  Women  also  had  their  work,  apart  from 
domestic  life  in  this  ideal  democracy  of  ancient  days. 
Suffrage  was  universal  to  both  sexes  over  twenty  years 
of  age,  but  as  there  were  no  official  positions,  no  public 
trusts,  a  political  class  could  not  come  into  existence, 
and  the  queen,  as  long  as  she  was  cunning  and  able, 
had  the  unanimous  support  of  her  people.  She  was 
given  a  great  ovation  as  she  modestly  walked  along 
the  fighting  line  after  the  winning  battle  of  Laurel 
Run.  It  made  her  feel  not  that  she  was  great,  but 
that  the  democracy  of  her  father  and  her  ancestors  was 
a  living  force.  In  those  days  of  pure  democracy  the 
rulers  walked:  the  litters  and  palanquins  were  a  later 
development. 

After  the  conflict  the  gentle  Nita-nee,  at  the  head 
of  the  soon  to  be  disbanded  army,  marched  across  the 
Seven  Brothers,  and  westerly  toward  her  permanent 


144  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

encampment,  where  State  College  now  stands.  As 
her  only  trophy  she  carried  a  bundle  of  spears,  which 
her  brave  henchmen  had  wrenched  from  the  hands  of 
the  southern  Indians  as  they  charged  the  forts  along 
Long  Mountain.  These  were  not  to  deck  her  own 
lodge  house,  nor  for  vain  display,  but  were  to  be  placed 
on  the  grave  of  her  father,  the  lamented  Chun-Eh- 
Hoe,  who  had  been  avenged.  In  her  heart  she  had 
hoped  for  victory,  almost  as  much  for  his  sake  as  for 
the  comfort  of  her  people.  She  knew  how  he  had 
grieved  himself  to  death  when  he  was  outgeneraled  in 
the  previous  war. 

In  those  dimly  remote  days  there  was  no  range  of 
mountains  where  the  Nittany  chain  now  raise  their 
noble  summits  to  the  sky.  All  was  a  plain,  a  prairie, 
north  clear  to  the  Bald  Eagles,  which  only  recently 
had  come  into  existence.  The  tradition  was  that  far 
older  than  all  the  other  hills  were  the  Seven  Moun- 
tains. And  geological  speculation  seems  to  bear  this 
out.  At  all  seasons  of  the  year  cruel  and  chilling 
winds  blew  out  of  the  north,  hindering  the  work  of 
agriculture  on  the  broad  plains  ruled  over  by  Nita-nee. 
Only  the  strong  and  the  brave  could  cope  with  these 
killing  blasts,  so  intense  and  so  different  from  the  calm- 
ing zephyrs  of  the  Juniata.  The  seasons  for  this 
cause  were  several  weeks  shorter  than  across  the  Seven 
Mountains;  that  is,  there  was  a  later  spring  and  an 
earlier  fall.  But  though  the  work  was  harder,  the  soil 
being  equally  rich  and  broader  area,  the  crops  aver- 
aged fully  as  large  as  those  further  south.     So,  taken 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  145 

altogether,  the  people  of  Nita-nee  could  not  be  said 
to  be  an  unhappy  lot. 

As  the  victorious  queen  was  marching  along  at  the 
head  of  her  troops,  she  was  frequently  almost  mobbed 
by  women  and  children,  who  rushed  out  from  the  settle- 
ments and  made  her  all  manner  of  gifts.  As  it  was  in 
the  early  spring,  there  were  no  floral  garlands,  but  in- 
stead wreaths  and  festoons  of  laurel,  of  ground  pine 
and  ground  spruce.  There  were  gifts  of  precious  stones 
and  metals,  of  rare  furs,  of  beautiful  specimens  of  In- 
dian pottery,  basketry  and  the  like.  These  were  gra- 
ciously acknowledged  by  Nita-nee,  who  turned  them 
over  to  her  bodyguards  to  be  carried  to  her  permanent 
abode  on  the  "Barrens."  But  it  was  not  a  "barrens" 
in  those  days,  but  a  rich  agricultural  region,  carefully 
irrigated  from  the  north,  and  yielding  the  most  bounti- 
ful crops  of  Indian  corn.  It  was  only  when  abandoned 
by  the  frugal  redmen  and  grown  up  with  forests  which 
burned  over  repeatedly  through  the  carelessness  of  the 
white  settlers  that  it  acquired  that  disagreeable  name. 
In  those  days  it  was  known  as  the  "Hills  of  Plenty." 

As  Nita-nee  neared  the  scenes  of  her  happy  days 
she  was  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  path  by  an  aged 
Indian  couple.  Leaning  on  staffs  in  order  to  present 
a  dignified  appearance,  it  was  easily  seen  that  age  had 
bent  them  nearly  double.  Their  weazened,  weather- 
beaten  old  faces  were  pitiful  to  behold.  Toothless, 
and  barely  able  to  speak  above  a  whisper,  they  ad- 
dressed the  gracious  queen. 

"We  are  very  old,"  they  began,   "the  winters  of 


146  JUNIATA   MEMORIES 

more  than  a  century  have  passed  over  our  heads.  Our 
sons  and  our  grandsons  were  killed  fighting  bravely 
under  your  immortal  sire,  Chun-Eh-Hoe.  We  have 
had  to  struggle  on  by  ourselves  as  best  we  could  ever 
since.  We  are  about  to  set  out  a  crop  of  corn,  which 
we  need  badly.  For  the  past  three  years  the  north 
wind  has  destroyed  our  crop  every  time  it  appeared; 
the  seeds  which  we  plan  to  put  in  the  earth  this  year 
are  the  last  we've  got.  Really  we  should  have  kept 
them  for  food,  but  we  hoped  that  the  future  would 
treat  us  more  generously.  We  would  like  a  wind- 
break built  along  the  northern  side  of  our  corn  patch; 
we  are  too  feeble  to  go  to  the  forests  and  cut  and  carry 
the  poles.  Will  not  our  most  kindly  queen  have  some 
one  assist  us?" 

Nita-nee  smiled  on  the  aged  couple,  then  she  looked 
at  her  army  of  able-bodied  warriors. 

Turning  to  them  she  said,  "Soldiers,  will  a  hundred 
of  you  go  to  the  nearest  royal  forest,  which  is  in  the 
center  of  this  plain,  and  cut  enough  cedar  poles  with 
brush  on  them  to  build  a  wind-break  for  these  good 
people?" 

Instantly  a  roar  arose,  a  perfect  babel  of  voices;  it 
was  every  soldier  trying  to  volunteer  for  this  philan- 
thropic task. 

When  quiet  was  restored,  a  warrior  stepped  out 
from  the  lines  saying,  "Queen,  we  are  very  happy  to 
do  this,  we  who  have  lived  in  this  valley  know  full  well 
how  all  suffer  from  the  uncheckable  north  winds." 

The  queen  escorted  the  old  couple  back  to  their 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  147 

humble  cottage,  and  sat  with  them  until  her  stalwart 
braves  returned  with  the  green-tipped  poles.  It  looked 
like  another  Bimam  Wood  in  process  of  locomotion. 
The  work  was  so  quickly  and  so  carefully  done  that  it 
seemed  almost  like  a  miracle  to  the  wretched  old  In- 
dians. They  fell  on  their  knees,  kissing  the  hem  of 
their  queen's  garment  and  thanking  her  for  her  benefi- 
cence. She  could  hardly  leave  them,  so  profuse  were 
they  in  their  gratitude.  In  all  but  a  few  hours  were 
consumed  in  granting  what  to  her  was  a  simple  favor, 
and  she  was  safe  and  sound  within  her  royal  lodge 
house  by  dark.  Before  she  left  she  had  promised  to 
return  when  the  corn  crop  was  ripe  and  partake  of  a 
corn  roast  with  the  venerable  couple.  The  old  people 
hardly  dared  hope  she  would  come,  but  those  about 
her  knew  that  her  word  was  as  good  as  her  bond. 
TTiat  night  bonfires  were  lighted  to  celebrate  her  re- 
turn, and  there  was  much  Indian  music  and  revelry. 

Nita-nee  was  compelled  to  address  the  frenzied 
mob,  and  in  her  speech  she  told  them  that  while  they 
had  won  a  great  victory,  she  hoped  it  would  be  the  last 
while  she  lived;  she  hated  war,  but  v/ould  give  her  life 
rather  than  have  her  people  invaded.  All  she  asked 
in  this  world  was  peace  with  honor.  That  expressed 
the  sentiment  of  her  people  exactly,  and  they  literally 
went  mad  with  loyalty  and  enthusiasm  for  the  balance 
of  the  night.  Naturally  with  such  an  uproar  there  was 
no  sleep  for  Nita-nee. 

As  she  lay  awake  on  her  couch  she  thought  that  far 
sweeter  than  victory  or  earthly  fame  was  the  helping 


148  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

of  others,  the  smoothing  of  rough  pathways  for  the 
weak  or  oppressed.  She  resolved  more  than  ever  to 
dedicate  her  hfe  to  the  benefiting  of  her  subjects.  No 
love  affair  had  come  into  her  life,  she  would  use  her 
great  love-nature  to  put  brightness  into  unhappy  souls 
about  her.  And  she  got  up  the  next  morning  much 
more  refreshed  than  she  could  have  after  a  night  of 
sleep  surcharged  with  dreams  of  victory  and  glory. 

As  the  summer  progressed,  and  the  corn  crop  in  the 
valleys  became  ripe,  the  queen  sent  an  orderly  to  notify 
the  aged  couple  that  she  would  come  to  their  home 
alone  the  next  evening  for  the  promised  corn  roast.  It 
was  a  wonderful,  calm,  cloudless  night,  with  the  full 
moon  shedding  its  effulgent  smile  over  the  plain.  Un- 
accompanied, except  by  her  orderly,  Nita-nee  walked 
to  the  modest  cabin  of  the  aged  couple,  a  distance  of 
about  five  miles,  for  the  cottage  stood  not  far  from  the 
present  village  of  Linden  Hall.  Evidently  the  wind- 
break had  been  a  success,  for,  bathed  in  moonlight, 
the  tasseled  heads  of  the  cornstalks  appeared  above  the 
tops  of  the  cedar  hedge.  Smoke  was  issuing  from  the 
open  hearth  back  of  the  hut,  which  showed  that  the 
roast  was  being  prepared.  The  aged  couple  were  de- 
lighted to  see  her,  and  the  evening  passed  by,  bringing 
innocent  and  supreme  happiness  to  all.  And  thus  in 
broad  unselfishness  and  generosity  of  thought  and  deed 
the  great  queen's  life  was  spent,  making  her  pathway 
through  her  realm  radiant  with  sunshine. 

And  when  she  came  to  die,  after  a  full  century  of 
life,  she  requested  that  her  body  be  laid  to  rest  in  th? 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  149 

royal  forest,  in  the  center  of  the  valley  whose  people 
she  loved  and  served  so  well.  Her  funeral  cortege, 
which  included  every  person  in  the  plains  and  valleys, 
a  vast  assemblage,  shook  with  a  common  grief.  It  would 
be  hard  to  find  a  successor  like  her,  a  pure  soul  so 
deeply  animated  with  true  godliness. 

And  it  came  to  pass  that  on  the  night  when  she 
was  buried  beneath  a  modest  mound  covered  with 
cedar  boughs,  and  the  vast  funeral  party  had  dispersed, 
a  terrific  storm  arose,  greater  than  even  the  oldest  per- 
son could  remember.  The  blackness  of  the  night  was 
intense,  the  roar  and  rumbling  heard  made  every  be- 
ing fear  that  the  end  of  the  world  had  come.  It  was 
a  night  of  intense  terror,  of  horror.  But  at  dawn,  the 
tempest  abated,  only  a  gentle  breeze  remained,  a 
golden  sunlight  overspread  the  scene,  and  great  was 
the  wonder  thereof!  In  the  center  of  the  vast  plain 
where  Nita-nee  had  been  laid  away  stood  a  mound- 
like mountain,  a  towering,  sylvan  giant  covered  with 
dense  groves  of  cedar  and  pine.  And  as  it  stood  there, 
eternal,  it  tempered  and  broke  the  breezes  from  the 
north,  promising  a  new  prosperity,  a  greater  tranquility, 
to  the  peaceful  dwellers  in  the  vale  that  has  since  been 
called  John  Penn's  Valley,  after  the  grandson  of 
William  Penn. 

A  miracle,  a  sign  of  approval  from  the  Great  Spirit, 
had  happened  during  the  night  to  forever  keep  alive  the 
riiemory  of  Nita-nee,  who  had  tempered  the  winds 
from  the  compatch  of  the  aged,  helpless  couple  years 
before.     And  the  dwellers  in  the  valleys  adjacent  to 


150  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

Mount  Nittany  awoke  to  a  greater  pride  in  them- 
selves, a  high  ideal  must  be  observed,  since  they  were 
the  special  objects  of  celestial  notice. 

And  the  name  of  Nita-nee  was  the  favorite  cogno- 
men for  Indian  maidens,  and  has  been  borne  by  many 
of  saintly  and  useful  life  ever  since,  and  none  of  these 
namesakes  were  more  deserving  than  the  Nita-nee  who 
lived  centuries  later  near  the  mouth  of  Penn's  Cave. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  15 


XL 
THE  ORIGINAL. 

A  TALE  OF  KITTANNING  POINT. 

KITTANNING  POINT  is  a  spot  pre-eminent 
in  Pennsylvania  song  and  story.  As  a  pivotal 
point  in  history  it  will  alv^ays  be  remembered; 
as  a  scenic  glory  it  is  the  envy  of  all  the  States.  And 
in  legendary  lore  it  holds  a  secure  place,  for  clustered 
about  it  are  many  weird  and  curious  traditions,  some 
of  which  still  linger  only  in  the  hearts  and  minds  of  the 
old  folks.  Those  few  of  the  tales  which  have  been 
written  out  are  read  and  re-read  with  breathless  in- 
terest. Still  there  are  others  unrecorded  that  possess  a 
thrill  or  charm  worthy  of  competent  chroniclers. 

History  tells  us  that  many  Indian  paths  converged 
at  Kittanning  Point,  consequently  it  was  a  frequent 
meeting  place  of  the  savages  in  their  journeys  across 
the  mountains.  They  often  camped  near  the  springs 
in  Kittanning  Gap,  or  on  Burgoon's  Run,  and  many 
are  the  arrow  points  and  other  relics  picked  up  there- 
abouts by  persons  of  quick  wit. 

In  addition  to  the  Indian  paths,  the  Point  was  a 
favorite  "crossing"  for  many  kinds  of  wild  animals. 
While  out  of  the  line  of  the  bison,  whose  main  trails 
were  further  east  and  further  west,  these  noble  crea- 


152  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

tures  sometimes  summered  on  the  high  mountains  in 
small    bands,    coming    to    and    from    their    fastnesses 
through  the  Gap.     It  was  a  favorite  rallying  ground 
for  the  elk  and  deer.     They  were  so  plentiful  in  Revo- 
lutionary days  that  all  the  hunters  had  to  do  was  to 
penetrate  the  forests  a  few  steps  from  their  camps  in 
order  to  have  venison  for  dinner.     And  at  that  only  the 
hindquarters  or  the  saddles  were  used.     A  few  elk 
lingered  long  in  the  region,  ranging  between  the  Point 
and  Laurel  Ridge,  where  one  of  the  last  killed  in  the 
State  was  slain  at  the  Panther's  Rock,  in  Somerset 
Count5\  about  the  middle  of  the  last  century.     Pan- 
thers also  had  a  "crossing"  over  Kittanning  Point.     It 
was  on  one  of  their  "migratory  lines"  between  West 
Virginia   and   Central    Pennsylvania,      They    always 
traveled  by  the  same  paths,  consequently  a  hunter  with 
a  fair  degree  of  patience  would  surely  be  rewarded. 
This  "fixity"  of  travel  was  one  of  the  reasons  for  their 
practical    extinction    in    our    Commonwealth.       The 
wolves  were  prevalent  at  the  Point  until  comparatively 
recent  years,  principally  on  account  of  the  abundance 
of  game.     When  it  decreased,  they  left  for  more  pro- 
ductive regions.      Bears  were  often  found  about  the 
Point,  as  the  fine  chestnut  and  walnut  trees  gave  them 
rich  "pickings"  in  the  autumn  months.      In  the  Gap 
were  several  bear  dens,  which  are  still  pointed  out  by 
the  old  hunters.     These  bears  were  all  of  the  black 
variety.     But  most  interesting  of  all  the  wild  life,  large 
and   small,   which   ranged   over  these   now   desolated 
hills  were  the  black  moose. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  153 

This  mammoth  animal,  known  in  pioneer  days  by 
the  quaint  name  of  the  Original,  because  it  was  sup- 
posed to  be  the  parent  of  all  the  deer  families,  was 
particularly  partial  to  the  glades  and  vales  about  Kit- 
tanning  Point  in  the  years  immediately  preceding  the 
Revolution.  In  fact,  its  path  for  migration  passed  over 
the  Point  in  a  southwesterly  direction.  In  these  migra- 
tions these  huge  beasts  made  a  practice  of  tarrying  for 
several  days  amid  the  grand  primeval  hardwoods 
which  covered  the  Point. 

Despite  its  size,  for  it  is  the  largest  of  all  deer,  ex- 
tinct or  existing,  the  Original  was  very  fleet  of  foot 
and  well  able  to  take  care  of  itself.  As  far  back  as 
tradition  goes  there  is  no  record  that  the  moose  ever 
bred  in  Pennsylvania  to  any  considerable  extent.  They 
were  distinctively  a  northern  animal,  though  they  had 
been  coming  to  this  State  for  untold  ages,  as  their 
fossil  remains  well  show.  Pennsylvania  was  about 
the  southerly  limit  of  their  migrations. 

After  Southern  New  York  had  been  opened  to 
settlement,  and  the  forests  between  the  southern  border 
of  the  Adirondack  Mountains  and  the  Pennsylvania 
State  line  cut  away,  the  moose  were  unable  to  continue 
their  journeys  into  the  walds  of  the  Keystone  State. 
The  last  to  enter  Pennsylvania  came  from  the  Catskill 
Mountains,  crossing  the  Delaware  River  at  various 
points  north  of  the  Water  Gap.  When  the  migrations 
ceased  those  moose  already  in  Pennsylvania  had  to 
remain  there,  and  they  were  cruelly  butchered  by  the 
settlers. 


154  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

Perhaps  on  account  of  their  all-time  scarcity  in  our 
State,  the  early  Indians  seldom  killed  the  Original. 
They  looked  with  veneration  on  this  gigantic  brute, 
viewing  it  as  the  dignified  progenitor  of  elk  and  deer, 
which  formed  their  staple  articles  of  life.  To  have  a 
moose  browse  in  the  vicinity  of  an  encampment  pre- 
saged victory  in  war,  to  find  a  moose  head  or  antlers  in 
the  forest,  good  luck  in  the  chase  or  domestic  life.  The 
moose  stood  for  all  that  was  biggest,  noblest  and  best 
in  Indicin  life,  it  typified  all  outdoors,  the  grand  free 
scope  of  the  wilderness.  To  single  out  such  a  splendid 
animal  for  slaughter,  while  all  around  were  myriads 
of  deer,  herds  of  elk,  companies  of  bears  and  countless 
smaller  game,  seemed  to  the  Indian  mind,  with  its 
Mosaic  sense  of  justice,  almost  a  sacrilege.  Conse- 
quently the  moose  were  never  killed  unless  in  dire 
necessity,  or  in  the  later  days  of  the  Indian  race  when 
they  were  desperate  and  had  lost  many  of  their  former 
ideals. 

But  it  was  galling  for  them  to  see  the  white  men 
slay  moose  without  quarter,  to  see  them  disregard  sport- 
ing standards  that  had  been  maintained  for  centuries 

Among  the  proudest  and  shrewdest  Indians  resid- 
ing in  the  Juniata  Valley  was  Young  Jacob,  the  young- 
est son  of  the  knightly  defender  of  Fort  Kittanning, 
Captain  Jacobs.  Inborn  was  his  mistrust  of  the  white 
men,  whose  wanton  destruction  of  forests,  game  and 
fish  went  hand  in  hand,  he  felt,  with  the  complete  anni- 
hilation of  his  own  race.  He  resented  the  friendly 
advances  made  to  the  newcomers  by  the  copper-colored 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  155 

aborigines.  He  held  aloof  from  all  gatherings  where 
the  two  races  apparently  fraternized  together.  He 
would  listen  to  no  compliments,  accept  no  favors  from 
the  white  men.  He  never  forgave  the  wrongs  of  his 
own  family.  James  Logan,  or  Tah-gah-jute,  was  the 
only  other  Pennsylvania  Indian  who  held  similar  views 
to  a  marked  degree.  He  often  told  Young  Jacob,  as 
they  rested  under  the  shade  of  the  giant  white  oaks  at 
Logan's  Spring,  near  Reedsville,  that  the  white  men 
wished  the  entire  Indian  race  under  the  sod,  and  would 
put  them  there  as  soon  as  they  could. 

"Some  of  us,"  he  declaimed  tragically,  "they  will 
kill  with  bullets,  others  of  us  they  will  kill  with  a  poi- 
son called  rum,  our  women  and  children  they  will 
starve  to  death." 

Logan's  greatest  sorrow  was  that  he  could  not  im- 
press his  ideas  on  the  other  Indians.  They  laughed 
away  his  fears,  drank  the  white  man's  bad  whisky, 
bartered  and  played  with  him  on  all  occasions,  suspect- 
ing nothing,  fearing  nothing.  Logan  would  go  on  to 
say  that  a  hundred  years  in  the  future,  when  the  proud 
Indian  race  remained  but  as  a  faint  remnant  of  its 
former  strength  and  greatness,  his  words  would  prove 
true,  but  now  he  was  looked  upon  as  such  an  anarchist 
that  he  could  not  even  impress  his  own  brothers,  Thach- 
nedoarus,  or  Captain  Logan,  and  John  Petty  Shi- 
kellemy. 

But  Young  Jacob  shared  Logan's  views  to  the 
minutest  detail;  he  was  intuitive,  and  he  had  proofs  of 
the  white  man's  perfidy.     Never  could  he  be  influenced 


156  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

by  soft  speeches  or  tawdry  gifts.  He  would  be  a  true 
redman  of  the  forest,  uncorrupted  to  the  last.  He  had 
as  one  of  his  special  missions  in  life  to  save  the  wild 
animals  and  birds  of  the  Juniata  Valley  from  extermi- 
nation. He  traveled  up  and  down  the  three  branches, 
preaching  toleration,  moderation,  conservation  among 
the  drink-ridden  Indians,  who  still  lingered  at  their  old 
hunting  grounds.  He  begged  them  to  cherish  their  old 
ideals,  only  to  kill  such  game  as  was  absolutely  neces- 
sary for  food  and  clothing. 

Even  if  the  white  men  killed  right  and  left,  and  per- 
mitted dead  game  to  rot  in  the  woods,  which  they  called 
"sport,"  the  Indians  should  kill  moderately,  as  they 
did  in  the  past,  for  was  not  the  wild  life  a  gift  from 
the  Great  Spirit,  and  should  be  carefully  tended  as 
such? 

But  most  of  his  preaching  fell  on  deaf  ears.  Home- 
less, drunken  savages  were  out  of  touch  with  the  high 
principles  of  the  past;  they  wanted  to  kill  just  as  their 
white  corrupters  were  doing.  Young  Jacob  was  like 
an  echo  from  the  past,  a  past  so  distant  that  it  hardly 
seemed  possible  ever  to  have  existed.  And  once  in  a 
great  while  Young  Jacob  argued  with  white  men  on 
the  impropriety  of  wasting  wild  life. 

Sport,  as  defined  by  the  Indians,  meant  harmless 
pleasure,  physical  exercise,  feats  of  skill,  fun,  the  chase, 
but  never  wanton  destruction  of  any  gift  of  the  Great 
Spirit.  But  the  white  men  could  not  see  it  that  way, 
as  long  as  they  had  guns  they  liked  to  practice  on  liv- 
ing targets,  to  see  how  many  animals  or  birds  could  be 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  157 

killed  in  a  day  or  hour,  besides  game  was  a  nuisance 
in  a  rapidly  developing  country.  The  game  was  in 
the  woods  to  be  killed,  and  if  they  did  not  kill  it,  some- 
body else  would.  And  they  laughed  in  Young 
Jacob's  face  as  the  price  of  his  pains. 

All  this  served  to  deepen  his  hatred  for  the  cruel 
white  men  who  claimed  they  were  "civilizing"  the 
Juniata  Valley,  but  to  his  mind  desolating  it.  It 
grieved  Young  Jacob  to  see  the  Indians  yielding  to  the 
white  men's  false  titles  and  moving  westward  without 
a  protest.  He  longed  to  fire  their  hearts  with  a  sense 
of  their  wrongs,  and  lead  them  in  a  bloody  war 
against  their  foes. 

With  this  in  view  he  traveled  up  and  down  the  val- 
ley, preaching  a  gospel  of  resistance.  And  sometimes 
he  crossed  over  into  the  Allegheny  headwaters 
beyond  Kittanning  Point.  Almost  every  Indian  was 
content  to  follow  the  white  men's  orders  and  move  on, 
but  occasionally  he  met  one  who  was  sober  enough  to 
realize  the  terrible  injustice  of  it  all. 

But  the  Indians  who  felt  that  way  would  say,  "What 
you  state  is  true;  we  are  being  robbed  and  murdered; 
but  what  can  we  do  when  the  majority  of  us  are  willing 
to  submit?" 

It  was  a  hopeless  task,  the  Indians  were  a  doomed 
race.  Still  Young  Jacob's  energy  was  inexhaustible, 
he  would  not  admit  his  teachings  fruitless.  He  con- 
tinued his  missionary  work,  trusting  that  some  spark 
from  his  torch  of  hate  might  kindle  the  unhappy  red 
race  to  a  last  defiant  stand.     He  carried  on  his  work 


158  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

so  quietly  that  none  of  the  white  men  in  authority  sus- 
pected that  he  was  any  more  than  a  surly,  disgruntled 
savage,  as  befitted  the  son  of  a  defeated  Indian  chief- 
tain. And  he  was  glad  that  they  felt  that  way  about 
him.  Otherwise  there  would  be  a  price  on  his  head, 
or  he  would  be  ordered  out  of  Pennsylvania  on  pain 
of  death,  like  was  meted  out  to  the  resisting  Logan. 
He  played  his  part  better  than  Logan  had  done,  and 
it  gratified  his  savage  heart. 

It  was  on  one  of  his  homeward  trips  from  the  Alle- 
gheny River  that  he  shed  the  first  white  blood,  which 
put  a  price  on  his  head,  and  made  him  a  skulking  exile 
to  the  last  of  his  days.  He  had  been  visiting  the  aban- 
doned Indian  settlements  at  Logstown  and  Kittanning, 
at  the  last-named  important  town  viewing  the  grave  of 
his  defeated  but  not  dishonored  father.  Captain  Jacobs. 
He  had  followed  the  Indian  trail  across  the  mountains, 
his  ultimate  destination  being  Black  Log  Valley  and 
Standing  Stone. 

Near  Kittanning  Point,  on  Burgoon's  Run,  he  had 
built  a  lean-to  of  boughs,  expecting  to  be  joined  there 
shortly  by  a  couple  of  Indian  spies  who  had  gone  down 
the  Allegheny  River  in  a  canoe,  and  were  to  travel 
eastward  by  way  of  Laurel  Ridge. 

On  the  night  of  his  arrival,  to  his  great  pleasure,  a 
giant  moose  ambled  out  of  the  forest  and  began 
leisurely  browsing  on  the  twigs  of  the  moosewood  trees 
which  formed  an  undergrowth  of  the  great  hardwood 
forest.  Apart  from  his  delight  in  watching  the  mon- 
ster's antics,  as  he  bent  down  the  trees  and  nibbled  at 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  159 

the  tenderest  twigs,  much  as  an  elephant  would  feed, 
was  the  feeling  that  the  beast  foretold  that  the  propa- 
ganda which  he  was  promoting  would  some  day  be- 
come a  reality.  The  moose  saw  the  Indian,  and  looked 
at  him  with  his  comical  little  eyes,  but  he  had  perfect 
confidence  that  the  redman  meant  him  no  harm.  For 
several  days  and  nights  the  mammoth  animal  made 
the  vicinity  of  Young  Jacob's  camp  his  headquarters. 
He  became  so  used  to  the  Indian's  presence  that  he 
kept  as  close  to  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  big  mule. 

On  the  evening  of  the  third  day  Young  Jacob  was 
getting  ready  to  start  on  his  journey,  as  evidently  his 
Indian  friends  had  been  detained  or  gone  by  a  different 
route.  His  chief  regret  was  at  leaving  the  moose, 
which  stood  munching  at  the  succulent  twigs.  He 
liked  to  travel  by  night,  it  was  cooler,  and  as  he  knew 
every  foot  of  the  way  he  could  travel  further. 

AVhile  he  was  adjusting  his  pack  on  his  back  he 
heard  the  twdgs  crack  and  looked  up.  Perhaps  it  was 
another  Original,  and  he  had  been  camping  in  a  moosic 
rendezvous!  But  instead  of  another  moose  he  saw  a 
solitary  white  man,  clad  in  a  green  shirt,  buckskin 
trousers,  and  moccasins,  and  carrying  a  long  rifle.  It 
is  hard  to  tell  whether  the  newcomer  saw  the  Indian  or 
the  moose  first.  In  any  event  he  raised  his  firearm  and 
took  aim  at  the  unsuspecting  animal,  which  kept  on 
browsing. 

When  Young  Jacob  saw  the  white  man's  intentions 
he  stepped  forward,  saying  politely,  "Brother,  don't 
kill   that   moose.      The   woods   are    full   of   deer,    if 


160  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

you  are  hungry,   and  the  moose  is  a  pet  of  mine." 

But  the  white  man  only  sneered,  and  pulling  the 
trigger  the  ball  sped  with  unerring  aim,  lodging  in  the 
big  Original's  heart.  With  an  awful  bellow  of  pain, 
mingled  with  surprise,  the  animal  turned  and  charged 
at  his  white  destroyer.  The  hunter,  who  reloaded  his 
gun  deftly,  let  the  moose  get  within  a  few  feet  of  him, 
when  he  fired  again,  but  the  big  brute  had  been  already 
mortally  wounded,  and  fell  without  the  aid  of  the  sec- 
ond shot. 

With  a  sound  like  a  falling  pine  the  Original  crashed 
to  the  earth,  lying  dead  among  the  ferns  and  hazel 
bushes,  his  wide-spreading  palmated  antlers  stretching 
out  on  either  side  like  the  knives  of  a  reaper.  Planting 
one  foot  on  the  dead  animal's  swarthy  proboscis,  the 
white  man  struck  a  silly  attitude.  Young  Jacob,  sup- 
posed savage,  looked  at  him  a  moment  in  disgust. 
Then  calmly  he  asked  him  what  he  intended  to  do 
with  the  mammoth  carcass  in  the  middle  of  summer. 

The  white  man  stroked  his  yellow  beard  a  moment 
and  said,  with  a  great  show  of  insouciance,  "Why,  of 
course,  leave  it.     What  else  could  I  do  with  it?" 

That  was  too  much  for  the  fair-minded  Indian. 
The  white  man  had  killed  the  harmless  moose  for 
"sport"  and  now  was  going  to  leave  it  to  rot  and  feed 
the  ravens.  He  could  contain  himself  no  longer,  and 
cursed  the  paleface  roundly  for  his  folly. 

"Why,"  he  shouted,  "that  moose  was  around  my 
camp  for  three  days  and  nights,  happy  and  doing  no 
harm,  and  I  thought  no  more  of  shooting  him  than  I 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  161 

would  the  little  singing  birds  in  the  trees  above.  We 
Indians  only  kill  when  we  have  to;  we  have  sense." 

The  white  man's  temper  was  equally  aroused,  and 
he  swore  at  the  Indian  in  turn.  "You  say  you  Indians 
only  kill  when  you  have  to.  You  are  damn  fools. 
We  white  men  kill  when  we  want  to,  and  intend  to  kill 
everything  before  we  get  through."  With  that  he 
raised  his  rifle  threateningly. 

But  Young  Jacob  suspecting  such  a  motive,  and  for- 
getting that  the  white  man  had  not  reloaded  his  weapon, 
pulled  his  own  trigger  first,  and  the  paleface  fell  to  the 
earth,  a  bullet  through  his  lungs.  When  the  redman 
saw  what  he  had  done  he  showed  no  remorse,  until  on 
picking  up  the  white  hunter's  rifle  he  found  it  empty. 
Then  he  threw  down  his  own  gun  and  went  to  the 
dying  man's  side. 

Stooping  down  he  said  to  him,  "White  man,  I  can- 
not call  you  brother  now.  I  am  sorry  for  what  I  have 
done.     I  did  not  remember  that  your  gun  was  empty." 

But  the  white  man,  rolling  his  eyes  which  were  glaz- 
ing with  death  and  staring  at  his  slayer,  cursed  the 
Indian  with  his  dying  breath,  then  closed  his  eyes  in 
death. 

As  he  passed  away  Young  Jacob,  leaning  over  him, 
muttered,  "Now  you  know  how  it  feels  to  be  in  the 
moose's  place." 

The  die  was  cast.  Young  Jacob  had  now  been 
added  to  the  list  of  Indian  murderers.  It  would  be  a 
waste  of  time  to  bury  the  dead  man,  the  wolves  would 
dig  him  out.     The  crime  would  be  discovered  sooner 


162  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

or  later.  So,  without  deigning  to  rifle  the  corpse's 
pockets  or  touch  his  gun  and  powder  horn,  he  left  him 
lying  in  the  now  profound  darkness,  within  a  dozen 
feet  of  the  dead  moose. 

It  was  there  that  the  two  Indians,  arriving  from 
Laurel  Ridge  found  the  body  the  next  morning. 
Though  they  suspected  some  such  episode  as  what  had 
actually  happened,  knowing  Young  Jacob's  nature  so 
well,  they  seized  upon  it  as  a  good  excuse  to  curry 
favor  with  the  white  men.  So  they  went  through  the 
dead  man's  effects,  finding  documents  which  identified 
him  as  Jacob  Gleeson,  an  adventurer  and  land  pros- 
pector from  Pennsbury  on  the  Susquehanna.  From 
the  look  of  things  he  had  been  shot  down  by  an  Indian, 
Young  Jacob,  in  cold  blood. 

They  made  haste  to  report  the  crime  when  they 
arrived  at  Standing  Stone. 

The  virtuous  Proprietary  Government,  on  the  alert 
to  avenge  a  white  man's  death,  but  sometimes  singularly 
apathetic  when  an  Indian  was  slain,  no  matter  what 
the  circumstances,  set  its  wheels  in  motion  to  apprehend 
the  savage  murderer.  A  reward  was  offered,  and  the 
news  spread  to  the  four  corners  of  the  wilderness. 

Young  Jacob  sensed  this  situation  perfectly,  and 
made  himself  a  fugitive.  When  the  pursuit  became  too 
hot  he  allied  himself  with  the  Tories  and  was  one  of 
the  real  leaders  of  that  treacherous  band.  The  con- 
tempt which  the  settlers  once  had  for  him  changed  to 
fear.  Many  were  the  white  men  ambushed  and  cruelly 
slain  by  his  direction.     His  youth,  his  dash,  and  his 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  163 

close  relationship  to  the  old  chiefs  gave  him  the 
sobriquet  of  "the  king's  son."  He  seemed  to  be  the 
active  agent  for  all  the  devilish  conduct  of  Indians  and 
white  renegades.  The  government  was  most  anxious 
to  apprehend  him  to  atone  for  Gleeson's  "murder," 
and  to  remove  the  ringleader  of  so  many  bloody  deeds. 
It  had  not  been  forgotten  how  Young  Jacob's  father 
and  his  warriors  had  been  rounded  up  at  Kittanning  by 
a  force  of  three  hundred  intrepid  men  sent  after  them 
from  Fort  Shirley,  under  the  command  of  the  famous 
Colonel  John  Armstrong,  for  whom  Armstrong  County 
was  named,  and  to  whom  the  city  of  Philadelphia  pre- 
sented a  silver  medal  for  his  great  victory. 

It  was  in  the  month  of  September,  in  the  year  1  756, 
when  the  attacking  force  surprised  the  Indian  band  at 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning.  They  had  been  guided 
to  the  town  through  the  darkness  by  the  whooping  of 
the  Indians,  who  were  holding  a  war-dance.  Young 
Jacob  had  urged  them  to  save  their  energies  for  a  bet- 
ter purpose,  but  to  no  avail.  And  it  was  he,  with 
clearer  senses  than  the  rest,  at  dawn  first  noticed  the 
attacking  party  crossing  the  cornfield  which  bordered 
the  settlement. 

Rousing  the  sleepy-eyed  defenders,  he  posted  them 
at  the  loopholes  in  Captain  Jacobs's  redoubt.  A  shot 
from  Young  Jacob's  rifle  wounded  Colonel  Armstrong 
in  the  shoulder,  and  he  fell  in  a  heap.  Directing  the 
forces  from  where  he  lay,  he  ordered  that  the  Indians* 
huts  be  set  on  fire,  as  the  redmen  refused  quarter.  The 
redmen  mocked  their  efforts  to  fire  the  buildings,  but 


164  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

some  of  the  soldiers  with  reckless  bravery  were  able  to 
start  the  blaze  going  at  one  corner  of  Captain  Jacobs's 
house. 

During  a  lull  in  the  firing  the  old  chieftain,  his 
squaw  and  Young  Jacob,  "the  king's  son,"  attempted 
to  escape  from  the  burning  building  through  a  window 
nearest  the  river.  Captain  Jacobs,  in  assisting  his 
squaw  through  the  window,  was  shot  in  the  head  and 
he  fell  back  dead  amid  the  smoke.  The  squaw 
plunged  bravely  into  the  water,  but  was  shot  dead. 
Young  Jacob,  not  wishing  to  die  a  coward's  death, 
sprang  through  the  window  and  reached  the  opposite 
shore  of  the  river  before  he  fell  wounded,  pierced  by 
half  a  dozen  balls.  The  first  reports  had  it  that  he 
was  killed. 

A  party  of  Indians  who  arrived  on  the  far  shore  after 
the  battle  was  in  progress,  at  the  risk  of  their  lives 
rescued  the  courageous  young  warrior  and  carried  him 
back  into  the  forest.  There  in  a  dismal  glade,  in  a 
haunt  of  night  herons,  he  was  nursed  back  to  health, 
as  befitted  "the  king's  son." 

But  after  years  of  plotting  Young  Jacob  was  shot 
to  death  ignobly  with  Weston  and  his  Tories,  when 
they  were  surprised  at  Kittanning  in  1  778,  And  thus 
ended  the  earthly  career  of  one  of  the  most  remark- 
able Indians  of  the  Juniata,  an  unreconcilable  to  the 
last,  fighting  for  the  ancient  ideals,  for  "life,  liberty 
and  the  pursuit  of  happiness." 

And  when  the  report  was  sent  broadcast  that  Young 
Jacob  was  among  the  fallen,  the  slaughter  of  the  Tories 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  165 

at  Kittanning  was  accounted  doubly  a  victory.  But 
when  James  Logan,  or  Tah-Gah-Jute,  heard  the  news 
out  in  Ohio  he  grieved  silently  and  long,  thinking  of 
the  old  days  at  his  favorite  resting  place,  under  the 
giant  oaks  by  the  boiling  spring,  in  old  Pennsylvania, 
where  he  had  spent  so  many  hours  in  conference  with 
the  dead  warrior.  And  his  grief  was  deep,  because 
he  knew  that  the  Indian  race  had  lost  its  sincerest  cham- 
pion; that  the  hoped-for  renaissance  would  never  be. 


166  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 


XII. 
LOST  CREEK  VALLEY. 

THE  STORY  OF  A  JUNIATA  TRIBUTARY. 

THE  historian  Jones  mentions  Lost  Creek  Valley 
as  one  of  the  most  beautiful  regions  in  the  Juniata 
country,  and  explains  how  it  obtained  the  name. 
It  appeared  that  some  Indian  traders  visited  the  valley 
in  1  740,  finding  it  inhabited  by  Indians,  and  were  able 
to  make  some  satisfactory  deals  with  them.  In  1741 
they  returned  to  the  Juniata  Valley,  but  were  unable 
to  find  the  valley  of  Lost  Creek.  It  was  not  until  the 
following  summer  that  they  found  it  again.  By  that 
time  the  Indian  inhabitants  had  disappeared  and  were 
never  afterward  heard  of.  With  this  outline  the  de- 
tails of  the  finding  and  losing  of  Lost  Creek  Valley, 
and  the  vanishing  of  its  inhabitants,  a  strange  old 
legend,  were  listened  to  with  breathless  interest  when 
told  by  one  of  the  aged  inhabitants  of  the  locality. 
This  story  had  come  down  through  four  or  five  gen- 
erations from  the  old  Indian,  John  Hutson,  who  fig- 
ured so  frequently  in  the  early  annals  of  Juniata 
County,  and  who  was  one  of  the  guides  who  led  the 
traders  back  into  the  valley  in  1  742. 

Hutson's  name  v/ill  live  in  Pennsylvania  history  for 
the  part  he  played  in  the  celebrated  Grey  case,  which 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  167 

involved  the  carrying  away  to  the  North  of  a  beautiful 
white  child  named  Jenny  Grey,  and  the  later  substitu- 
tion by  her  mother  of  a  "black  Dutch"  orphan,  in 
order  to  claim  a  valuable  estate  located  about  six  miles 
from  Mifflin.  The  case  was  in  the  courts  for  fifty 
years,  and  was  finally  decided  against  the  false  claim- 
ant. Meanwhile,  according  to  Hutson,  the  real  Jenny 
Grey  was  married  to  a  prominent  man,  one  of  Sir  Will- 
iam Johnson's  neighbors  in  Northern  New  York  State, 
and  became  the  mother  of  a  large  family. 

It  was  said  that  Hutson  was  a  Tuscarora.  At  any 
rate  he  seemed  friendliest  with  that  tribe.  From  the 
date  of  the  first  settlements  at  Harris'  Ferry,  later  Har- 
risburg,  that  important  trading  post  became  the  head- 
quarters for  adventurers,  soldiers  of  fortune  and  traders 
of  all  stripes  and  shades.  First  settled  by  John  Harris 
in  I  726,  it  was  possessed  of  a  considerable  population 
in  1  740,  in  which  latter  year  Paxton  Church,  three 
miles  east  of  the  trading  post,  was  erected. 

The  adventurers  and  traders  on  their  way  to  the  un- 
settled regions  and  the  big  game  country  usually  rested 
for  a  few  days  at  "The  Ferry,"  listening  to  the  tales 
of  those  recently  back  to  civilization,  outfitting  them- 
selves and  securing  directions.  Harris'  trading  house 
had  connected  with  it  a  long  avenue  of  sheds,  which 
sometimes  were  filled  to  the  roofs  with  hides  and  furs, 
mostly  obtained  by  him  in  trading  with  the  Indians.  In 
many  respects  it  corresponded  to  the  town  of  Nairobi 
in  British  East  Africa,  a  favorite  outpost  for  settlers 
and  big  game  hunters  before  going  into  the  wilderness. 


168  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

If  only  records  or  descriptions  of  that  early  life  had 
been  kept,  it  would  have  been  a  wondrous  groundwork 
for  romance.  As  it  is,  we  have  only  the  severe  Puri- 
tanical account  from  the  pen  of  the  ascetic  David 
Brainerd  to  guide  us  in  forming  a  mental  picture  of 
Harris'  post. 

But  at  all  times  the  "Ferry"  was  thronged  with  a 
picturesque  and  motley  crew.  From  government  agents 
and  military  officers,  big  game  hunters  and  trappers, 
down  to  half-breed  camp-followers  and  sharpers,  the 
floating  population  exhibited  all  the  gradations  of  hu- 
man society.  It  was  virtually  a  "port  of  missing  men," 
as  persons  long  since  disappeared  from  their  early  en- 
vironments could  be  met  with  about  the  old  stockade. 
Romantic  were  the  tales  that  they  could  tell,  these  in- 
satiable ne'er-do-wells,  who  were  ever  on  the  watch 
for  a  fresh  chance  for  excitement  and  gain.  Some  of 
the  most  degraded  looking  were  men  of  education, 
graduates  of  colleges  in  Germany  or  Ireland,  black 
sheep,  being  dyed  a  deeper  color  amid  the  lawlessness 
of  the  frontier.  And  there  were  some  not  really  bad, 
but  weak  characters,  sunk  by  drink  into  existences  of 
shady  nature.  Murder,  pillage,  oppression,  swindling, 
had  been  the  crimes  of  many,  all  unrecorded  in  the  un- 
trameled  life  of  the  forests. 

Of  varied  antecedents  was  a  party  of  four  young 
men  who  started  on  an  exploring  and  bartering  trip 
from  the  Harris  trading  house  in  1  740.  The  leader 
of  the  party,  James  McHale,  was  a  recent  graduate 
of  Trinity  College,   Dublin.     His  companion,  Jacob 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  169 

Jondro,  had  attended  the  University  at  Bonn  in  Ger- 
many, while  attached  to  their  party  were  two  Penn- 
sylvania Frenchmen  from  Conoy  Creek,  near  Lemcas- 
ter,  PhilHp  and  Isaac  La  Bolt.  Both  McHale  and 
Jondro  came  of  respectable  parentage,  but  had  wasted 
their  inheritances  and  were  much  addicted  to  drink  and 
carousing.  The  La  Bolt  brothers  had  hunted  and 
pioneered  along  the  Juniata  for  several  years,  were 
friendly  with  the  Indians,  and  understood  the  practical 
side  of  camping  and  trading. 

McHale  and  Jondro  had  become  acquainted  at 
Lancaster,  where  they  decided  to  pool  their  small  re- 
maining capital  and  spend  a  year  trading  with  the  In- 
dians, eventually  locating  in  some  fertile  valley  where 
game  was  plentiful.  Before  leaving  Harris'  stockade, 
where  they  secured  their  outfit,  they  had  met  the 
Indian,  John  Hutson,  who  was  anxious  to  accompany 
them,  but  his  offer  was  refused,  as  it  would  have  meant 
dividing  the  spoils  of  the  expedition  into  five  parts  in- 
stead of  four. 

The  La  Bolts,  who  were  expert  canoe  builders,  con- 
structed two  stout  boats,  and  with  one  of  them  as  pilot 
for  each  craft,  started  away  one  fine  spring  morning 
for  the  wilds  of  the  Juniata  country.  Their  aim  was 
to  follow  the  stream,  trading  with  the  Indians  on  the 
way,  until  they  passed  all  existing  settlements  or  signs 
of  settlements.  Then  they  would  hide  their  canoes  in 
the  woods  and  follow  some  unexplored  creek  to  its 
headwaters,  there  to  meet  with  plenty  of  game  and  per- 
haps good  homestead  sites. 


!70  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

But  as  they  paddled  along  they  found  that  most  of 
the  redmen  whose  camps  lined  the  banks  had  earlier 
in  the  season  sold  their  furs  to  the  traders,  and  many 
of  the  hides  which  packed  John  Harris'  sheds  had  come 
from  that  region.  But  the  idea  of  hunting,  of  finding 
suitable  homesteads,  was  uppermost  in  their  minds,  so 
they  pushed  on  up  stream.  Every  night  they  tied  up 
near  an  Indian  encampment,  as  they  liked  to  mingle 
with  the  picturesque  redskins,  and  learn  many  things 
from  them  concerning  the  new  country. 

One  night  they  moored  near  a  cabin  occupied  by  a 
solitary  old  Indian  named  O-To-Wa,  who  proved  to 
be  one  of  John  Hutson's  friends.  This  old  savage 
was  very  communicative,  and  painted  a  brilliant  pic- 
ture of  the  rich  valleys  which  lay  beyond.  A  small 
stream  emptied  into  the  river  near  this  encampment, 
about  which  the  pioneers  thought  little  until  old 
O-To-Wa  told  them  that  it  issued  from  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  valleys  in  the  province,  a  vale  teeming 
with  rich  land  and  game,  as  yet  unvisited  by  white  men 
and  still  inhabited  by  a  few  peaceful  Indians. 

McHale  suggested  that  such  a  narrow,  unimportant 
looking  stream  could  hardly  drain  a  very  large  valley, 
but  the  Indian  told  him  that  the  creek  had  several 
mouths,  and  pointed  a  few  hundred  yards  up  the  river 
to  where  it  had  another  outlet.  Between  these  mouths 
was  jungle  and  brake,  and  the  old  oaks  and  birches 
hung  over  the  estuaries,  practically  hiding  them  from 
view.  The  old  Indian  told  the  young  men  that  they 
would  be  making  no  mistake  to  explore  the  hidden 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  171 

valley,  so  they  decided  to  take  his  advice  and  abandon 
their  up-stream  expedition  for  the  present. 

The  lower  reaches  of  the  creek,  just  beyond  the  foot 
of  the  mountains,  seemed  to  run  through  an  impene- 
trable morass,  filled  with  water  birds  of  all  kinds,  and 
with  a  tropical  touch  added  to  it  by  the  presence  of 
large  flocks  of  Carolina  paroquets,  white  herons  and 
innumerable  insects.  But  a  country  difficult  of  access 
was  what  the  young  men  were  seeking,  they  longed  to 
be  off  the  beaten  path,  to  hew  a  way  for  themselves,  a 
home  for  themselves  in  the  heart  of  the  wilds.  But 
after  they  reached  the  gorge  between  the  mountains, 
where  the  creek  fell  with  a  deafening  roar  over  three 
waterfalls,  the  scene  became  very  different.  The  nar- 
row gap,  grown  thick  with  giant  hemlocks  and  pines 
whose  tops  were  reaching  out  to  the  sun,  was  as  dark 
as  night  for  the  most  part  of  the  day.  Fallen  trees  lay 
across  the  stream,  covered  with  mosses,  the  oft-used 
bridges  of  the  panthers,  wolves  and  lynxes.  Peeping 
through  the  thickets  of  tall  rhododendrons,  many  otter 
slides  could  be  noticed  on  the  hillsides,  and  in  whose 
deep  rock  fissures  were  the  lairs  of  bears  and  wolves. 
Up  on  the  steeps  of  the  forested  mountains  ravens 
croaked  and  jays  screamed.  It  was  like  the  gateway 
to  some  hunters'  paradise,  so  thought  the  young  ex- 
plorers as  they  clambered  up  slippery  logs  and  over 
sharp  rocks,  through  the  wild  gorge. 

When  they  reached  the  top  of  the  highest  of  the 
three  waterfalls  they  obtained  their  first  glimpse  of  the 
sun, — the  beavers  had  dammed  the  stream  almost  the 


172  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

width  of  the  valley  and  cut  off  most  of  the  smaller  tim- 
ber. Looking  beyond  the  beaver  pond  with  its  "cab- 
ins," so  reminiscent  of  the  ancient  huts  of  the  lake 
dwellers,  the  pioneers  could  see  that  the  valley  widened 
appreciably,  and  there  were  gaps  in  the  endless  growth 
of  tall  white  pines,  which  might  be  clearings  or  settle- 
ments. From  the  long  lines  of  the  high  mountains  on 
either  side  of  the  valley,  which  faded  into  the  land- 
scape at  the  far  southwest  end,  they  decided  that  the 
valley  must  be  at  least  ten  miles  in  length.  At  some 
points  it  seemed  to  be  several  miles  in  width.  There 
was  something  about  this  secluded  valley  that  appealed 
to  all  four  adventurers.  It  had  been  well  worth  coming 
to,  and  McHale  showed  so  much  delight  that  Jondro 
suggested  that  they  elect  him  "king." 

"I  would  like  to  rule  over  this  valley  if  I  could  find 
a  queen,"  said  the  young  Irishman  jokingly. 

After  taking  in  the  splendid  scene  for  some  minutes 
the  party,  headed  by  McHale,  went  on  their  way, 
soon  falling  into  an  Indian  path,  which  came  into  the 
valley  from  the  most  easterly  mountain,  showing  that 
the  redskins  had  easier  access  to  the  region  by  avoid- 
ing the  rocky  creek.  From  the  looks  of  the  path  it  was 
frequently  used,  so  the  explorers  had  high  hopes  of 
reaching  an  Indian  settlement  for  the  night. 

Despite  this  evidence  of  human  inhabitants,  the 
prevalence  of  game  indicated  a  virgin  wilderness.  In 
a  mile  the  tracks  of  a  hundred  deer  were  counted  cross- 
ing the  path,  as  well  as  the  spoor  of  bears,  wolves, 
foxes  and  other  beasts.     Jondro  had  his  rifle  primed  to 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  173 

kill  the  first  thing  he  saw,  but  his  companions  urged  him 
not  to  shoot,  as  they  did  not  want  to  make  a  bad  "first 
impression"  on  the  Indians. 

When  a  flock  of  fifty  wild  turkeys  marched  across 
the  trail  not  a  dozen  paces  in  front  of  the  impetuous 
German,  he  could  restrain  himself  no  longer  and  shot 
the  head  off  the  biggest  gobbler.  He  picked  up  the 
dead  bird,  as  the  others  flew  away,  but  it  was  so  heavy 
that  after  carrying  it  a  few  feet  he  dropped  it  into  the 
brush. 

"We'll  come  back  after  it  if  we  need  it,"  he  said  as 
he  resumed  his  way.  It  was  fortunate  that  none  of 
the  Indians  heard  this  remark,  as  they  hated  nothing 
worse  than  the  wastefulness  of  the  white  men. 

It  was  mid-afternoon  when  the  party  reached  the 
Indian  campground.  It  covered  about  ten  acres,  al- 
though there  were  only  about  half  a  dozen  huts  in  it. 
Most  of  the  big  pines  had  been  girdled  and  were  dead, 
and  there  were  signs  that  part  of  the  ground  had  been 
recently  planted  with  Indian  corn.  Hanging  on  trees, 
and  from  poles  and  ropes,  were  hundreds  of  bear  hides, 
red  and  black,  black,  cross  and  grey  fox  hides,  beaver, 
fisher  and  otter  skins,  while  many  deer  and  wolf  hides, 
of  less  commercial  value,  lay  about  on  the  turf.  The 
skulls  of  bison,  here  and  there,  added  to  the  pic- 
turesqueness  of  the  scene.  The  fires  on  the  stone 
hearths  were  completely  out,  evidently  the  Indians  had 
gone  away  the  day  before.  They  must  have  lived  in 
a  country  where  there  was  no  molestation  of  any  kind 
to  leave  such  a  valuable  stock  of  furs  entirely  unpro- 


174  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

tected.  Jondro,  half  jokingly,  suggested  that  the  party 
load  up  with  the  best  skins  and  strike  for  the  Ju- 
niata. 

"No,"  said  McHale,  "if  I  am  to  be  king  here  I 
don't  want  to  begin  my  reign  by  robbing  my  subjects." 

The  Indian  camp  was  situated  in  an  elbow  of  the 
creek,  a  beautiful  land,  the  bottom  well  drained  and 
with  rich  soil.  It  was  an  ideal  spot  to  stop,  so  the  pio- 
neers decided  to  make  themselves  at  home  until  the  In- 
dians returned.  They  were  tolerably  certain  of  a 
friendly  welcome,  especially  since  they  would  say  that 
they  were  friends  of  old  O-To-Wa.  So  the  newcomers 
took  possession  of  the  hearths,  building  on  them  cheery 
fires,  as  the  night  settled  in  very  cold.  Isaac  La  Bolt 
found  the  hindquarters  of  an  elk  in  one  of  the  pools, 
and  this  made  a  very  acceptable  supper.  After  the 
meal,  when  all  were  ready  to  retire  for  the  night,  a 
pack  of  wolves  surrounded  the  camp,  drawn  thither  by 
the  human  voices  and  the  smell  of  the  cooking.  The 
fierce  animals  kept  up  their  howling  all  night,  although 
the  young  men  discharged  several  volleys  from  their 
rifles  into  the  darkness. 

In  the  morning  when  the  La  Bolt  brothers  were 
cooking  a  breakfast  of  wild  pigeon  eggs,  the  Indian 
families  who  resided  at  the  secluded  village  appeared 
on  the  scene,  single  file.  Their  coming  was  so  silently 
accomplished  that  no  one  was  aware  of  their  presence 
until  they  stood  within  a  few  feet  of  the  campfire. 

Unaffected  by  the  dissimulation  of  the  white  men, 
their  faces  were  wreathed  with  smiles  and  trustfulness 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  175 

as  they  greeted  the  four  young  strangers.  Isaac 
La  Bolt,  whose  long  association  with  the  Conestogas, 
Conoys  and  Shawnees  made  him  an  adept  in  handling 
the  savages,  responded  in  a  graceful  manner,  and  pre- 
sented the  old  chief,  who  seemed  to  be  the  leader  of 
the  party,  with  a  string  of  glass  beads.  The  chief 
handed  his  pipe  to  La  Bolt,  and  the  friendship  was 
declared  cemented. 

The  white  men  explained  to  the  Indicms  that  they 
had  come  into  the  valley  on  a  peaceful  mission,  to 
trade  and  barter  with  the  inhabitants.  They  would 
be  willing  to  discuss  terms  for  the  sale  of  the  entire 
stock  of  furs  which  hung  about  the  encampment.  As 
Isaac  La  Bolt,  who  did  most  of  the  talking,  conferred 
with  the  chief,  McHale  was  looking  around  at  the 
faces  of  the  Indians.  They  were  a  copper-colored  lot, 
with  sloping  foreheads,  wide  mouths  and  shoe-button 
eyes,  all  but  one.  This  was  a  girl  about  seventeen 
years,  quite  tall  for  her  age,  slim  and  very  white.  But 
for  the  texture  of  her  blackish  hair,  and  her  general  at- 
mosphere, she  might  have  passed  for  a  very  good  look- 
ing white  girl.  La  Bolt,  who  was  a  quick  trader,  had 
almost  bought  the  entire  winter's  catch  of  furs,  the  price 
to  be  two  rifles  and  a  certain  number  of  rounds  of  am- 
munition, before  McHale  was  aware  of  what  was  go- 
ing on.  He  was  blind  to  everything  except  the  slim 
pale  girl's  charms.  He  had  been  looking  at  her  so  hard 
that  she  dropped  her  head,  but  he  felt  that  she  was 
not  unfriendly  to  him,  as  she  cast  sidelong  glances  at 
him  from  under  her  long  dark  lashes. 


176  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

During  a  lull  in  the  negotiations  the  young  Irishman 
put  his  arm  around  La  Bolt  and  asked  him  if  he  no- 
ticed the  white  girl,  and  if  he  had  any  idea  who  she 
might  be.  The  trader  shook  his  head,  but  said  that  he 
would  soon  find  out.  After  he  had  spoken  McHale  was 
sorry  for  expressing  a  confidence  to  a  man  of  La  Bolt's 
type,  the  fellow  might  also  admire  the  white  girl. 

But  at  noon,  when  the  Indians  as  hosts  entertained 
the  white  men  at  a  venison  dinner,  McHale  was  intro- 
duced to  the  girl  as  Mary  Melanie,  step-daughter  of 
Ki-Ni-Ka,  the  chief  of  the  band,  and  niece  of  the 
great  Chief  Toganogan,  well  known  along  the  Susque- 
hanna. During  the  meal  he  further  learned  that  she 
had  been  born  along  the  "big  river"  near  Pennsbury 
Manor,  her  father,  now  dead,  having  been  a  white  man 
named  Benjamin  McMorris.  As  the  day  wore  on  the 
young  Celt  became  well  acquainted  with  the  fair  half- 
breed,  and  as  she  could  speak  a  few  words  of  French, 
as  well  as  English,  they  grew  to  know  each  other  as 
well  as  other  shy  and  rather  silent  young  persons  do  in 
this  modern  civilized  life.  For  we  all  like  fully  as 
much  those  with  whom  we  exchange  few  words  as 
those  who  entertain  us  with  their  conversational  gifts, — 
for  liking  comes  from  inward  harmony. 

By  the  end  of  a  week  the  young  men  knew  the  val- 
ley thoroughly.  Each  had  chosen  the  corner  where 
he  would  like  to  live,  and  blazed  a  few  trees,  not 
enough  to  disturb  the  Indians,  to  mark  his  selected 
boundaries.  They  could  be  happy  and  prosperous  in 
that  valley,  it  was  easy  of  access  over  the  ridges,  hunt- 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  177 

ing  and  trapping  would  be  good  for  years,  agricultur- 
ally it  was  a  "gold  mine." 

McHale  and  Mary  Melanie  were  drawn  to  each 
other  by  a  mysterious  bond,  and  while  the  canny  Irish- 
man confided  in  no  one,  his  three  companions  decided 
that  he  had  gotten  a  start  on  them  and  chosen  a  life 
companion  for  the  new  home.  The  young  men  held 
many  councils  together.  They  decided  that  it  would 
be  best  for  them  to  buy  the  stock  of  furs  and  carry  it 
across  the  mountains  and  load  it  on  a  flat  and  take  it  to 
Harris'  Ferry.  The  two  La  Bolt  brothers  who  had  a 
farm  on  Conoy  Creek,  would  travel  east  with  the  furs 
and  put  their  place  in  order  with  a  view  to  selling  it. 
McHale  and  Jondro  would  continue  their  canoe  trip 
to  the  headings  of  the  Juniata  to  explore  the  country, 
and  find,  if  possible,  a  location  that  would  suit  them 
better.  They  would  return  in  the  autumn  and  report 
at  the  La  Bolt  home.  If  nothing  suited  better  all  four 
would  go  in  the  early  spring  to  the  hidden  valley  and 
take  up  homesteads.  In  any  event  the  La  Bolts  would 
go  there,  as  they  had  younger  brothers  growing  up  who 
would  take  care  of  their  aged  parents. 

Ki-Ni-Ka  and  some  of  his  stalwart  retainers  acted 
as  bearers  for  the  pioneers  with  their  superb  lot  of  furs. 
It  was  a  steep  climb  to  the  top  of  the  ridge,  then  over 
a  tableland,  thence  down  grade  all  the  rest  of  the  way 
to  the  Juniata.  It  would  not  be  worth  while  to  go 
back  after  the  cheap  bark  canoes  left  at  old  O-To- 
Wa's  camp,  so  a  compact  flat  boat  was  constructed, 
with  a  tent  made  of  buffalo  hides  on  the  deck,  and  on 


178  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

this  the  two  young  La  Bolts,  with  their  load  of  hides, 
floated  with  the  current  to  John  Harris'  trading  house. 

McHale  and  Jondro,  in  canoes  built  by  the  Indians, 
paddled  westward,  eventually  penetrating  as  far  as 
French  Run,  near  the  head  of  the  Raystown  Branch. 
At  French  Run  they  fell  in  with  a  large  party  of 
French  surveyors  and  prospectors,  with  whom  they  ex- 
plored and  hunted  until  late  in  the  autumn. 

McHale  was  well  pleased  with  the  country  on  the 
Raystown  Branch,  especially  the  Broad  Top  plateau, 
and  would  have  selected  a  home  site  there  instead  of 
in  the  hidden  valley  had  it  not  been  for  his  memories 
of  the  rare  Mary  Melanie,  better  known  as  "Toga- 
nogan's  niece."  The  young  Irishman  was  secretly  very 
lonely  for  her,  and  had  to  be  on  the  move  constantly  to 
keep  from  grieving.  If  there  had  been  any  "firewater" 
in  the  Frenchmen's  camp  he  might  have  returned  to  his 
old  habits,  but  there  was  none  and  he  felt  himself  im- 
provmg  physically  under  the  strenuous  existence  he  was 
leading,  and  his  hopes  of  love  and  happiness  for  the 
future. 

But  with  the  prospects  of  cold  weather  he  started 
for  the  east,  accompanied  by  his  friend  Jondro.  The 
Frenchmen  had  not  liked  the  young  High  German 
very  much,  as  he  was  proud  and  boastful,  and  several 
times  it  v/as  only  McHale's  tact  that  saved  him  from 
altercations  with  them. 

When  the  tv/o  young  men  beached  their  canoe  at 
Harris'  Ferry  the  first  person  to  greet  them  was  the  old 
Indian,  John  Hutson.     He  hastened  to  tell  them  that 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  179 

the  La  Bolt's  flatload  of  furs  was  considered  the  finest 
shipment  received  at  the  trading  house  that  season. 
Though  it  was  the  last  to  arrive  it  brought  the  biggest 
price.  Dozens  of  trappers  had  tried  to  coax  the  loca- 
tion of  the  hunting  ground  from  the  brothers,  but  they 
refused  to  divulge  it. 

This  pleased  the  young  men,  who  did  not  tarry  long 
at  the  trading  house.  They  were  anxious  to  reach  the 
La  Bolt  home  and  hear  the  good  news  first  hand. 
When  they  came  to  Conoy  Creek  they  found  the  La 
Bolts  ensconced  in  their  comfortable  home,  which  they 
had  now  arranged  to  sell  to  their  four  younger  brothers 
on  easy  payments.  They  confirmed  everything  that  Hut- 
son  had  said,  and  were  delighted  to  know  that  McHale 
and  Jondro  would  accompany  them  back  to  the  hidden 
valley  in  the  early  spring.  The  brothers  gave  an  honest 
accounting  of  the  sale  of  furs,  and  with  the  proceeds 
of  it,  and  with  other  money,  McHale  and  his  friend 
spent  the  winter  very  comfortably  in  Philadelphia. 

McHale  could  hardly  wait  to  resume  his  journey 
back  to  the  Juniata,  never  did  a  winter  pass  more 
slowly.  The  young  Irishman  managed  to  do  a  little 
teaching  to  help  pass  the  time,  but  he  was  mentally  dis- 
tressed. The  night  before  starting  again  for  the  wilds 
he  confided  to  Jondro  that  he  had  proposed  marriage 
to  the  half-breed  girl,  had  been  accepted,  and  would 
marry  her  as  soon  as  they  were  reunited  in  the  hidden 
valley.  There  was  a  dealer  in  rings  and  precious 
stones,  a  Portuguese  Jew,  one  of  the  first  in  the  Quaker 
province,   living  in  the  house  where  the  young  men 


180  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

boarded,  and  from  him  McHale  invested  practically 
his  last  cent  in  a  handsome  gold  ring  set  with  small  dia- 
monds. It  was  to  be  the  token  of  his  unselfish  love  for 
Mary  Melanie. 

The  young  men,  filled  with  high  hopes,  traveled  by 
wagon  to  Lancaster,  where  they  cut  across  country  on 
foot  to  Conoy  Creek  to  the  La  Bolt  home.  They 
found  two  Indian  boys  in  the  Market  Square  at  Lan- 
caster who  acted  as  bearers  for  their  goods.  The  La 
Bolts  were  ready,  and  had  constructed  a  large  pirogue, 
nicely  balanced,  which  carried  the  four  youths  and 
their  goods  up  the  river.  Of  course  they  stopped  at 
John  Harris',  where  they  were  the  envy  of  all, — four 
young  men  bound  for  a  rich  hunting  country,  the  loca- 
tion of  which  no  one  knew  aught  but  themselves.  John 
Hutson  tried  hard  to  be  taken  along.  He  begged  and 
pleaded  and  even  ran  out  to  his  knees'  depth  in  the 
river  when  they  started  away.  But  they  did  not  want 
to  add  to  their  party.  They  suspected  that  all  Hutson 
wanted  was  to  know  where  they  were  going,  and  sell 
the  information  to  others. 

When  they  headed  their  boat  into  the  Juniata  it 
seemed  as  if  their  journey  was  almost  at  an  end.  They 
decided  that  it  would  be  a  little  quicker  to  go  in  by  old 
O-To-Wa's  camp,  so  kept  on  the  watch  for  the  fa- 
miliar landmarks.  But  though  they  went  as  far  as  they 
were  sure  it  must  be,  not  a  sign  could  they  find,  or  no 
trace  of  O-To-Wa.  They  could  not  describe  the 
place  intelligently  to  other  Indians  whom  they  met, 
but  they  learned  that  old  O-To-Wa  had  gone  across 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  181 

country  to  Shamokin  late  in  the  fall,  and  rumor  had  it 
that  he  had  died  while  on  a  mission  to  the  north  for 
Shikellemus. 

So  they  went  down  the  stream  to  where  the  trail  had 
brought  them  out,  where  Ki-Ni-Ka  and  his  henchmen 
had  built  their  boats.  With  some  little  trouble  they 
found  that  mooring,  but  the  trails  back  into  the  moun- 
tains had  been  pretty  well  broken  up  by  the  windfalls 
and  storms  of  the  winter.  They  followed  one,  then 
another,  penetrating  into  many  beautiful  and  fertile 
valleys,  but  the  valley  of  "Lost  Creek"  they  could  not 
find.  So  they  returned  to  their  boat  and  went  back  to 
the  mouth  of  the  Juniata.  Up  the  West  Branch  they 
went  in  search  of  Toganogan  and  O-To-Wa.  To- 
ganogan  was  well  known,  but  was  said  to  be  in  the 
north.  The  retainers  at  his  camp  near  McKee's  Half 
Falls  knew  of  his  having  a  niece  Mary  Melanie,  but 
could  not  tell  the  location  of  the  valley  in  which  she 
lived. 

"Go  to  Shamokin  and  see  O-To-Wa,"  was  the 
general  advice.  At  Shamokin  they  were  received  in 
audience  by  Shikellemus,  the  mighty  vicegerent  of  the 
Iroquois  Confederation.  This  grand  old  Indian  and 
true  friend  of  the  white  men  gave  them  a  royal  wel- 
come, but  imparted  the  sad  news  that  O-To-Wa  had 
fallen  over  a  precipice,  while  walking  in  his  sleep, 
somewhere  on  the  North  Branch,  a  few  months  before. 

Thachnectoarus,  better  known  as  Captain  Logan, 
Shikellemus'  eldest  son,  politely  offered  to  escort  the 
white  men  across  the  hills  to  the  Juniata,  and  resume 


182  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

the  hunt,  or  if  they  would  wait  until  October  Toga- 
nogan  would  be  back  from  his  embassy  to  the  Onon- 
daga and  could  give  them  the  desired  directions. 

As  affording  the  least  delay  they  accepted  Captain 
Logan's  invitation  and  started  southward,  coming  out 
at  the  Juniata  at  the  mouth  of  Delaware  Creek. 
Though  it  was  not  far  from  the  spot  they  were  looking 
for,  the  combined  talent  were  unable  to  find  it,  so  after 
presenting  a  rifle  to  Captain  Logan  as  a  token  of  ap- 
preciation they  built  a  new  canoe,  with  the  intention  of 
going  to  Harris'  Ferry  to  enlist  John  Hutson's  aid. 

At  the  last  minute  the  La  Bolt  boys  decided  not  to 
return  east,  but  instead  went  back  with  Logan  to  Sha- 
mokin.  It  is  said  that  they  finally  settled  permanently 
on  Crane's  Run,  in  Pfoutz'  Valley.  When  McHale 
and  Jondro  reached  Harris'  place,  John  Hutson  was 
not  there.  He  had  gone  down  the  river  on  a  flat  boat, 
presumably  to  Maryland ;  no  one  knew  when  he  would 
return. 

It  was  now  Jake  Jondro's  turn  to  desert.  He  met  a 
party  of  Germans  bound  for  the  headwaters  of  the 
Swatara.  They  were  filled  with  bright  prospects,  and 
one  of  them  had  a  pretty  daughter,  so  he  left  McHale 
without  much  ceremony  to  fight  out  his  destiny  alone. 
There  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait  for  Hutson  to  come 
back.  After  a  month  and  no  signs  of  him,  McHale's 
cash  running  low,  compelled  him  to  take  work  as  a 
farmhand,  and  to  help  clear  some  land  in  the  Conewago 
Hills.  There  he  worked  until  the  spring  of  the  follow- 
ing year,  1  742,  when  he  heard  that  John  Hutson  was 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  183 

back  at  "the  Ferry."  Throwing  up  his  irksome  situa- 
tion, and  with  his  httle  store  of  money  and  the  gold  and 
jeweled  ring,  he  set  out  for  the  famous  trading  house. 

He  found  the  Indian,  who,  despite  past  rebuffs,  was 
glad  to  go  with  him,  as  he  said  he  knew  exactly  where 
old  O-To-Wa  used  to  camp,  also  the  trail  across  the 
high  ridges.  And  McHale  also  learned  that  Jondro 
had  been  back  the  week  before.  He  did  not  like  the 
Blue  Mountain  country,  and  was  setting  out  with  one 
compcuiion,  also  a  German,  for  the  Juniata.  Perhaps 
he,  too,  was  seeking  the  "lost"  valley. 

Hutson  had  become  possessor  of  a  good  canoe,  so 
the  start  was  prom.ptly  made.  At  the  mouth  of  the 
Juniata,  on  Haldeman's  Island,  they  overtook  Jondro 
and  his  friend,  who  were  encamped  there.  Past  dif- 
ferences were  forgotten,  and  the  two  parties  joined 
forces.  It  was  not  long  before  the  sloping  open  beach 
where  the  boats  had  been  built  was  discovered,  and 
Htitson  soon  had  the  party  on  the  right  trail  for  Lost 
Creek  Valley.  It  seemed  a  very  simple  place  to  reach 
— when  one  knew  how. 

It  was  in  the  last  moments  of  the  golden  hour,  on  a 
beautiful  day  in  early  June,  when  the  sun  was  getting 
ready  to  sink  behind  the  western  mountains  that  the 
party  got  their  first  view  of  the  elusive  vale.  Never  did 
its  charm  show  off  to  better  advantage,  the  lavender 
colored  peaks,  the  pine-capped  slopes,  the  open 
meadows,  the  dark  forest  corners,  the  distant  roar  of 
the  hidden  waterfalls.  Forest  warblers  were  singing 
sweetly  in  the  tall  hemlocks.     James  McHale's  whole 


184  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

nature  was  aglow  with  joy  and  expectation.  With 
rapid  stride  he  led  the  party  down  the  familiar  trail 
which  would  come  out  into  the  clearing  where  the  In- 
dian encampment  was  located. 

When  they  got  within  easy  distance  of  it  they  were 
surprised  to  find  the  surroundings  strangely  still. 
Breaking  into  a  run,  McHale  rushed  out  of  the  forest 
into  the  opening.  The  Indians  were  gone  again.  But 
this  time  it  looked  as  if  they  had  been  absent  for  a  long 
while.  The  thatched  roofs  of  the  cabins  had  fallen  in, 
there  was  grass  between  the  stones  of  the  open  hearths, 
there  were  no  hides  nailed  on  trees  or  stretched  by  pegs 
over  the  grass.  Everything  savored  of  abandonment 
and  ruin.  The  mildewed  buffalo  skulls  seemed  em- 
blems of  the  desolation.  The  Indians  had  gone  surely 
enough,  but  where  to?  Would  it  be  hopeless  to  try 
and  track  them  further  in  the  wilnerness? 

McHale  bit  his  lips  and  leaned  against  a  dead  pine 
to  steady  himself.  Lost  Creek  Valley  was  doubly  lost 
to  him  without  the  pale,  wan  figure  that  he  loved,  and 
who  was  the  very  spirit  of  the  savage  place.  There 
was  nothing  to  do  but  to  settle  down  for  the  night  in 
the  lonely  spot,  the  valley  from  which  the  soul  had  fled. 
Jondro  killed  a  brace  of  wild  turkeys,  and  a  toothsome 
supper  was  prepared,  but  McHale  had  no  taste 
for  it. 

After  dark  the  wolves  surrounded  the  camp,  howl- 
ing just  as  they  had  the  first  night  he  had  been  there 
two  years  before.  If  he  only  knew  their  language  they 
might  tell  him  where  the  copper-visaged  campers  had 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  185 

gone.  But  he  could  make  nothing  sensible  out  of  their 
dismal  howls  and  baying. 

In  the  morning,  with  his  comrades,  a  thorough  ex- 
ploration of  the  valley  was  made,  which  included  a  trip 
down  the  gorge  of  the  waterfalls,  clear  to  old  O-To- 
Wa's  abandoned  camp.  And  the  search  was  con- 
tinued every  day  for  a  week,  many  adjacent  valleys 
being  visited.  But  not  a  sign  or  clew  of  any  of  the 
missing  Indians  was  found. 

Then  Jondro  and  the  other  German  determined  to 
leave  again;  it  was  a  lonesome  valley  after  all.  John 
Hutson  felt  that  it  would  be  to  his  best  interests  to  de- 
part with  them.  But  as  for  James  McHale,  he  who 
had  discovered  Lost  Creek  Valley,  and  found  love, 
came  out  boldly,  declaring  that  he  would  remain,  he 
could  find  a  living  there,  and  maybe  love  would  come 
back  again. 


186  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

XIII. 
THE  OLD  TREE. 

THE  TALE  OF  A  VANISHED  LANDMARK. 

CLOSE  by  the  bank  of  the  "Blue  Juniata,"  fac- 
ing the  dark  glen  back  of  the  picturesque  bor- 
ough of  McVeytowoi,  there  stood  for  centuries, 
and  until  the  flood  of  1889  uprooted  it  and  swept  it 
away,  a  giant  linden  tree,  a  conspicuous  landmark  for 
generations  of  red  men  and  white.  During  its  latter 
years  most  of  its  top  branches  were  gone,  in  fact  little 
else  remained  except  the  main  trunk  with  its  tremendous 
girth,  and  hollow  at  that,  to  brave  the  storms.  When 
the  great  flood  swept  down  the  valley,  carrying  every- 
thing before  it,  it  seemed  as  if  it  sounded  the  tocsin  of 
the  new  order  of  things.  The  grave,  the  quaint,  the 
picturesque,  the  old-fashioned,  all  had  to  make  way 
for  the  prosaic,  matter-of-fact,  dollar-mad  world, 
which  the  com.ing  twentieth  century  would  usher  in. 
The  stack,  the  forge,  the  foundry,  the  dynamo,  the 
sand-rock  quarry,  the  power  house  vvould  render  un- 
sightly the  pleasant  nooks  and  peaceful  valleys  where 
the  Indians  once  trod  and  which  a  hardier  race  of  white 
men  fought  against  aborigines  and  nature  to  possess. 
The  great  flood  facilitated  the  vandalism  which  fol- 
lowed in  its  wake,  the  forces  of  discouraged  nature 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  187 

swept  out  quickly  what  man  with  his  axes,  picks,  gun- 
powder, and  steam  shovels  had  started  to  do  labori- 
ously. 

And  with  the  old  log  cabins,  shady  groves,  giant 
trees,  old  fords,  ferries,  beaver  dams,  and  reed-grown 
pools,  went  the  legends,  the  folklore,  the  ghosts  that 
lingered  about  these  survivals  of  a  simpler  and  happier 
day.  And  no  one  can  be  truly  happy  who  does  not 
live  in  an  atmosphere  of  the  past,  whether  it  be  mental 
or  actual.  The  mechanical  world  may  pile  up  bank 
accounts  mountain  high  for  the  few,  but  it  brings  mo- 
notony, dreariness,  empty  pleasures,  short  life  for  the 
many.  Oh,  the  joy  of  actually  having  seen  the  Juniata 
before  the  great  flood,  yet  it  only  appears  in  the  writer's 
eye  of  faith ! 

Toward  the  last  days  of  the  giant  linden  tree,  in  the 
year  preceding  the  deluge,  various  propositions  to  cut 
it  down  were  discussed.  "It  took  up  room  in  the  field," 
"It  gave  no  shade,"  "It  was  a  rotten  old  shell,"  were  a 
few  of  the  wise  reasons  advanced  for  its  elimination. 
But  the  spirit  of  procrastination  that  is  the  bane  of 
many  Pennsylvania  farmers  saved  the  tree  until  it 
might  disappear  with  its  generation!  The  fact  that  a 
very  curious  old  legend  of  the  early  days  of  the  Juniata 
Valley  clustered  about  it  had  no  weight  with  those 
having  influence  over  the  life  of  the  tree.  The  old 
stories  were  "played  out,"  so  the  shrewd  young  mate- 
rialists held,  better  get  rid  of  all  the  landmarks  con- 
nected with  them,  there  v/as  not  time  for  such  trash. 

If  the  truth  must  be  told,  the  last  fifteen  years  of 


188  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

the  nineteenth  century  worked  hardest  on  the  old  tales 
than  any  other  period.  It  was  an  ugly  period  anyway, 
a  period  devoid  of  taste,  as  is  evidenced  by  the  hideous 
post  offices,  city  halls,  hotels  and  business  blocks 
erected  throughout  Central  Pennsylvania  during  those 
years.  Their  bareness  and  coldness  typifies  the  ma- 
terial selfish  aims  of  the  builders,  and  the  writer  always 
hurries  by  them  with  a  shudder  and  feels  uncomfortable 
whenever  he  has  to  enter  their  inhospitable  doors. 

It  appeared  that  for  a  number  of  years  an  aged  In- 
dian, called  Old  Israel,  because  of  his  Hebraic  fea- 
tures, ranged  through  the  Juniata  Valley.  He  was 
probably  the  same  savage  who  killed  Joseph  Campbell, 
the  Indian  trader,  at  the  foot  of  the  Tuscarora  Valley, 
near  Parnall's  Knob,  in  1  744,  but  escaped  punishment 
for  political  reasons.  So  with  the  lapse  of  years  the 
bitterness  felt  toward  him  by  the  white  race  passed 
away,  as  he  became  welcome  at  manj'^  a  farmhouse 
along  the  Juniata. 

Like  most  of  the  wandering  Indians,  he  was  a  noted 
story  teller.  It  was  an  age  when  books  were  few,  and 
farming  folks  had  little  time  for  reading,  and  to  supply 
this  want  in  their  busy  life,  travelers,  who  put  up  for 
the  night,  were  expected  after  supper  to  tell  to  the  as- 
sembled household  of  their  adventures  on  land  and  on 
sea,  or  of  events  in  the  stirring  past.  In  this  way  the 
remnant  of  Indians  became  a  class  of  professional 
story  tellers,  in  a  sense  like  the  Celtic  bards  who 
cheered  the  long  evenings  in  the  Scottish  farmsteads 
pf  the  ancestors  of  the  Juniata  Valley's  solid  pioneers. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  189 

An  Indian  who  had  nothing  to  relate,  who  sat  before 
the  fire  like  a  wooden  image,  would  have  to  be  a  ster- 
ling workman  or  he  would  be  apt  to  be  turned  away 
on  his  next  visit. 

As  near  as  can  be  learned  there  were  at  one  time 
nearly  a  hundred  of  these  wandering  Indian  story 
tellers  moving  up  and  down  the  Juniata  and  other  val- 
leys. Their  numbers  gradually  dwindled  until  they 
were  all  gone,  and  their  places  were  taken,  but  not  as 
well,  by  veterans  of  the  Napoleonic  wars,  sons  of  old 
Indian  fighters,  drummer  boys  from  the  Revolution, 
great  hunters,  tinkers,  traders,  and  peddlers. 

Old  Israel  used  to  say  that  when  he  was  a  boy  it 
was  a  part  of  an  Indian's  education  to  receive  the 
oral  history  of  his  race  from  the  old  people.  It 
was  as  necessary  as  the  art  of  hunting,  fishing, 
fighting.  It  was  considered  the  highest  attribute  in 
education,  of  more  importance  even  than  the  arts  of 
war. 

These  old  traditions  were  told  in  such  an  interesting 
manner  that  no  young  Indian  ever  forgot  them.  They 
knew  the  history  of  their  people  better  than  many  of 
the  white  settlers,  who  after  one  generation  forgot 
everything  except  that  their  people  had  been  Ulster 
Scots  or  Germans,  sometimes  even  getting  their  nation- 
ality mixed,  but  at  best  could  not  name  the  places  in 
Ireland  or  the  Palatinate  where  they  originated,  or  the 
date  when  they  arrived  in  Pennsylvania.  It  remained 
for  those  of  their  descendants  who  amassed  fortunes  in 
Pittsburg  or  Philadelphia  to  suddenly  learn  it  all  to 


190  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

the  smallest  branches,  and  grow  from  it  an  emblazoned 
"family  tree." 

Old  Israel's  favorite  story  related  to  the  thrilling 
days  when  the  Southern  Indians,  tiring  of  the  confine- 
ment and  struggling  of  their  narrow  valleys  along  the 
Maryland  line,  decided  on  the  invasion  of  the  peaceful 
and  beautiful  valley  of  the  Juniata.  The  original  In- 
dians residing  there  were  so  happy  and  contented  that 
they  were  utterly  unprepared  for  war.  As  many  of 
them  were  vegetarians,  subsisting  on  dried  fruits  and 
nuts  during  the  winter  months,  the  manufacture  of  ar- 
rows and  spears  was  becoming  a  lost  art.  Where  there 
were  no  hunters  there  were  no  warriors.  That  was  an 
old  Indian  maxim.  But  agriculture  and  fruit  raising 
appealed  more  to  these  gentle  Juniata  Indians,  they 
increased  more  in  numbers  and  wealth  by  the  arts  of 
peace  than  by  the  arts  of  war.  They  never  molested 
any  of  their  neighbors  to  the  north  or  south,  did  not  ex- 
pect to  be  molested  in  return.  They  were  making  rapid 
strides  in  art  and  music,  their  bards  and  story  tellers 
possessed  an  oral  literature  as  complete  as  many  a  white 
nation  would  be  proud  of  to-day.  Their  king,  Chun- 
Eh-Hoe,  encouraged  all  that  was  best,  and  he  and  his 
family  were  greatly  beloved. 

After  many  generations  of  such  peaceful  develop- 
ment, it  would  have  been  folly  to  talk  of  "prepared- 
ness." Soldiers  were  a  disliked  class,  no  one  wanted 
to  think  of  a  time  when  his  ancestors  fought,  they  were 
as  undesirable  ancestors  as  undertakers  are  to-day. 

But  during  this  blissful  period  a  war-cloud  was  gath- 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  191 

ering  among  the  Southern  Mountains.  It  gathered  in 
size  and  velocity  until  it  swept  into  the  happy  vale  of 
the  Juniata. 

One  day  when  Chun-Eh-Hoe,  surrounded  by  his 
devoted  wife  and  family,  were  seated  by  the  river  bank 
in  the  beautiful  garden  spot  now  occupied  by  the  Penn- 
sylvania Railroad  creosoting  plant  at  Mount  Union, 
that  rare  spot  where  Rev.  Cyrus  Jeffries  dreamed  of 
erecting  a  replica  of  the  gardens  of  Versailles,  listening 
to  a  famous  bard  recite  a  lengthy  poem  depicting  the 
future  greatness  of  his  race,  a  band  of  citizens,  dusty, 
wan  and  care-worn,  bowed  low  and  asked  to  be  heard 
in  immediate  audience. 

As  Chun-Eh-Hoe's  court  was  democratic,  the  bard 
was  motioned  to  desist  for  a  few  moments  while  the 
delegation  of  citizens  expressed  themselves.  They 
hesitated  to  break  the  awful  news  to  spoil  the  good 
king's  peaceful  rapture,  but  at  length  one  Indian  spoke 
as  follows:  "Sire,"  he  began,  "you  are  happy,  you  are 
good,  you  do  not  deserve  to  hear  this,  but  it  must  be 
told.  This  morning  a  large  company  of  Southern  In- 
dians, armed  with  spears  and  poisoned  darts,  came 
across  the  Blue  Ridge  through  the  gap  a  little  to  the 
southwest  of  Matawanna,  and  began  murdering  your 
peaceable  subjects,  sparing  not  even  the  women  and 
children.  No  one  was  able  to  defend  his  home,  the 
attacking  force  has  already  occupied  several  hundred 
acres  on  the  southern  bank  of  the  Juniata.  What  shall 
we  do  to  check  their  further  advance?" 

Chun-Eh-Hoe  raised  his  hands  in  horror,  his  queen 


192  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

fell  in  a  faint,  the  children  wept  with  consternation. 

"There  is  only  one  thing  to  do,"  he  answered  at 
length,  "send  messengers  to  every  point  in  my  domain 
informing  my  subjects  of  the  invasion,  and  asking  all 
men  and  boys  to  arm  themselves  with  stakes  and  toma- 
hawks, and  advance  from  north,  east  and  west  on  the 
cruel  invaders." 

The  citizens  then  withdrew  to  the  edge  of  the  king's 
camp,  where  they  conferred  with  their  ruler's  master 
of  ceremonies.  From  him  they  secured  a  hundred  fleet 
youths,  who  sped  in  every  direction  to  spread  the 
dreadful  news. 

Before  sundown  the  male  inhabitants  of  every  en- 
campment had  armed  themselves  as  best  they  could, 
some  bore  axes,  tomahawks,  celts,  clubs,  sharpened 
stakes,  canoe  paddles,  every  article  of  domestic  use  was 
brought  into  play  as  a  weapon  of  war,  and  were  on 
their  way  to  the  plains  of  Matawanna.  When  they 
came  in  sight  of  the  fertile  flat  which  lies  between  the 
Juniata  and  the  foot  of  the  Blue  Ridge  they  could  note 
that  it  was  in  hostile  hands.  Stockades  were  being  run 
up,  and  smoke  curled  from  the  ruins  of  most  of  the 
cabins  that  had  lately  stood  in  this  charming  area. 

Chun-Eh-Hoe,  as  gallant  a  figure  no  doubt  as  King 
Albert  of  Belgium,  marshaled  his  volunteers  for  a 
night  attack.  The  Juniata  Indians  knew  every  foot 
of  ground,  and  thus  figured  an  advantage  over  the 
strangers.  Almost  before  the  invaders  knew  that  the 
Juniata  forces  had  arrived  they  were  attacked  from 
the  east  and  west,  the  Juniata  line  closing  in  on  them 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  193 

and  driving  them  back  into  the  pass  in  the  mountains. 
It  was  there  that  their  superior  weapons  stood  them  in 
good  stead,  for  they  held  a  strong  position  until  day- 
break, when  the  attacking  party  withdrew. 

The  Juniata  Valley  was  now  free  of  its  foes,  but 
the  dead  which  Httered  the  plain  were  nearly  all  the 
subjects  of  Chun-Eh-Hoe.  The  king  determined  if 
possible  to  keep  the  Southern  Indians  in  the  gap,  so 
he  marshaled  his  forces  in  solid  lines  across  the  paths 
which  led  from  the  wild,  deep  glen. 

As  the  morning  advanced  and  no  signs  of  attack 
were  made,  Chun-Eh-Hoe  commenced  breathing 
easily.  He  had  just  seated  himself  for  dinner  when  a 
messenger  ran  up  to  tell  him  that  a  much  larger  attack- 
ing force  of  Southern  Indians  was  crossing  the  Black 
Log  Mountains,  and  threatening  the  royal  encamp- 
ment near  Mount  Union. 

Chun-Eh-Hoe  turned  pale,  and  dropping  his  morsel 
of  wild  turkey  breast,  called  some  of  his  stoutest  fol- 
lowers, and  started  with  them  in  the  direction  of  the 
royal  campgrounds.  When  he  got  there  he  found  that 
the  enemy  was  in  possession  of  all  the  lands  on  the 
south  bank  of  the  river,  where  they  had  massacred  all 
the  women  and  children.  He  was  able  to  prevent  the 
foes  from  crossing  the  Juniata,  but  could  not  dislodge 
them  from  the  rich  flats  in  Hill  Valley  and  on  Augh- 
wick  Creek. 

In  the  morning  he  learned  to  his  sorrow  that  his 
forces  at  Matawanna  had  been  cut  in  two,  and  the 
Southern  Indians  were  again  in  possession  of  the  flats 


194  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

south  of  the  river.  At  noon  he  heard  of  another  huge 
attacking  force  that  had  crossed  the  BKie  Ridge  oppo- 
site the  present  city  of  Lewistown,  and  sweeping  across 
the  river  was  in  full  possession  of  the  fertile  plain  as 
far  north  as  the  present  site  of  Yeagertown. 

Chun-Eh-Hoe's  realm  was  menaced  by  three  attacks, 
how  could  his  poorly  armed,  untrained,  pastoral  sub- 
jects hold  out  against  such  hordes.  But  victory  some- 
times is  hard  won,  and  long  deferred.  The  forces  of 
Chun-Eh-Hoe,  dominated  by  pure  patroitism  and  love 
of  their  king,  managed  to  hold  possession  of  the  Juniata 
Valley  for  more  than  a  year. 

But  gradually  the  superior  numbers  of  their  foes 
were  closing  in  on  them,  until  all,  including  the  women 
and  children,  were  forced  to  make  a  last  stand  on  the 
west  bank  of  the  Juniata,  in  and  about  that  remarkable 
peninsula  known  as  the  "big  elbow,"  near  where  New- 
ton Hamilton  now  stands.  There  they  were  attacked 
by  forces  from  the  east,  west  and  south  and  driven  up 
Beaver  Dam  Run  into  Jack's  mountain.  Reduced  in 
numbers,  starving,  and  with  the  prospect  of  a  long  and 
severe  winter  there  was  no  other  course  to  pursue. 

Chun-Eh-Hoe  and  his  family  were  in  the  thick  of 
the  retreat,  and  sanguinary  was  the  clim.b  of  Jack's 
Mountain  with  the  attacking  party  always  close  at 
their  heels. 

On  the  summit  a  final  stand  was  made,  the  Juniata 
Indians  hurling  rocks  down  on  their  pursuers,  but  they 
were  again  repulsed  with  great  loss.  The  women  car- 
rying infants  were  compelled  to  run  pell-mell  down  the 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  195 

steep  slope  in  the  direction  of  the  present  town  of  Belle- 
ville. 1  here  another  brave  stand  was  made,  but  again 
the  followers  of  Chun-Eh-Hoe  had  to  break  ranks  and 
run  in  every  direction  in  the  cover  of  the  autumnal  for- 
ests to  save  their  lives.  It  was  a  terrible  defeat,  a  com- 
plete rout,  and  never  again  was  the  gallant  king  able 
to  rally  his  people  around  him  until  they  met  in  the 
broad  valley  at  the  headwaters  of  the  Karoondmha,  at 
what  is  now  known  as  Penn's  Cave. 

Under  the  sheltering  arched  roof  of  the  cave  the 
fugitive  monarch  rested  with  his  family  and  servants. 
Warm  breaths,  like  from  some  cherishing  mother,  is- 
sued from  the  cavern's  depths,  bringing  back  life  and 
almost  hope.  Scouts  were  sent  out  to  find  the  stragglers 
who  had  survived  the  journey  across  the  Seven  Moun- 
tains, and  they  were  congregated  in  the  meadows  about 
the  cave,  which  far  into  the  days  of  Indian  antiquity 
had  always  been  a  region  of  good  luck  for  the  redmen. 

But  the  spirit  of  the  "original  people"  was  unbroken. 
They  had  been  driven  from  a  beautiful  valley,  yet 
they  had  come  into  possession  of  a  number  of  beautiful 
valleys,  theirs  was  to  be  a  broader  destiny.  And  as 
the  breaths  of  warm  air  issued  from  the  giant  cave  they 
felt  that  they  were  still  the  favored  of  the  Gitchie- 
Manitto. 

Though  outwardly  calm  and  self-possessed,  Chun- 
Eh-Hoe  was  sad  at  heart.  Terrible  melancholy,  that 
awful  sickness  of  the  soul,  rested  heavily  on  him,  he 
could  see  nothing  except  the  memory  of  his  defeat  and 
rout.     He  busied  himself  apportioning  homesteads  and 


196  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

hunting  grounds  in  the  new  territory.  Thanks  to  the 
prevalence  of  game,  there  would  be  no  starvation  that 
winter.  He  looked  after  the  spiritual  welfare  of  the 
refugees,  cheering  the  bereaved  and  sickly,  though  he 
had  lost  a  kingdom  and  was  bravest  of  all  at  heart. 
He  worked  with  noble  fortitude,  sublime  unselfishness, 
a  true  king.  Never  once  did  he  utter  a  word  of  com- 
plaint, except  when,  to  his  family,  he  berated  his  own 
military  ignorance,  the  unpreparedness  of  his  nation. 

"If  we  had  been  a  race  of  hunters  this  never  would 
have  happened.  Now  I  propose  to  encourage  the  royal 
sport  of  the  chase,  and  the  conservation  of  wild  life." 

Yet  his  soul  was  dying  within  him  of  humiliation, 
of  chagrin,  of  sorrow  for  his  dead  followers.  Over- 
conscientiousness  was  his  greatest  fault,  and  in  this 
case  a  fatal  one. 

Vastly  different  was  the  attitude  of  O-Wan-Sa- 
Duta,  king  of  the  Southern  Indians,  at  his  camp  at 
Matawanna.  Though  he  had  conceived  the  expedi- 
tion into  the  Juniata  Valley,  he  assumed  no  personal 
leadership  of  his  forces.  Clever  generals  arranged  the 
details  of  the  campaign,  fought  the  battles  and  gave 
him  the  glory.  He  always  kept  himself  at  a  safe  dis- 
tance in  the  rear  of  the  belligerents,  where,  at  an  un- 
favorable sign,  he  could  retire  into  his  southern  fort- 
resses. He  took  no  chances.  If  the  invasion  failed, 
and  it  couldn't  as  he  had  been  preparing  for  it  for  ten 
years,  he  would  still  have  his  domain  in  the  South 
with  a  smaller  population  to  support.  He  was  a  wily, 
cruel  savage,  with  love  only  for  himself.     Rumor  had 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  197 

it  that  he  had  killed  several  successive  wives,  he 
neglected  his  children,  and  was  civil  only  to  flatterers. 
Yet  this  was  the  king  whom  destiny  was  to  lead  into 
the  Juniata  Valley.  Surely  there  must  be  some  mis- 
take in  the  lines  of  fate! 

O-Wan-Sa-Duta  was  feeling  in  excellent  spirits  over 
the  continued  successes  of  his  armies.  There  had  been 
a  demand  from  the  victorious  troops  after  every  skir- 
mish that  he  appear  on  the  battlefront  and  receive  the 
homage  due  his  greatness,  but  he  preferred  the  safe 
seclusion  of  his  camp  at  Matawanna.  He  had  given 
orders,  however,  that  when  Chun-Eh-Hoe  and  his  fol- 
lowers had  been  finally  driven  beyond  Jack's  Moun- 
tain, and  cut  to  pieces,  that  a  swift  runner  should  bring 
him  the  tidings.  Then  he  might  consent  to  review  the 
victorious  troops  as  they  came  back  into  the  Juniata 
Valley  through  McVeytown  Gap,  but  that  question 
would  be  settled  after  he  had  received  and  digested  the 
news. 

After  the  rout,  the  generals  selected  the  son  of  one 
of  the  commanders,  a  youth  of  sixteen,  named  Wa- 
Kan-Nah,  noted  for  his  fleetness  of  foot,  to  carry  the 
glad  tidings  to  the  august  monarch.  The  lad  was  over- 
come with  joy  at  this  signal  honor,  but  managed  to  get 
started  promptly  on  his  ten-mile  run  across  the  steep 
mountains.  Without  a  pause  or  a  misstep  he  ran  at 
breakneck  speed,  outdistancing  the  swiftest  birds. 
Within  his  mind  was  the  fixed  idea  to  bring  the  glorious 
tidings  to  the  monarch  in  less  time  than  any  one  else 
could  have  done  it.     He  would  do  in  an  hour  or  less 


198  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

what  would  take  most  runners  one  hundred  minutes  to 
accomplish.  His  brain  aflame  with  pride  and  love  for 
his  king,  he  plunged  on,  his  black  hair  streaming  in  Uie 
wind,  clearing  rocks  and  rivulets,  bounding  up  the  steep 
slopes  of  the  mountains  like  a  deer. 

In  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time,  a  minute  or  two 
less  than  an  hour,  he  was  at  the  bank  of  the  Juniata, 
on  the  opposite  shore  of  which  was  his  king's  headquar- 
ters. Dripping  with  perspiration,  his  heart  thumping 
against  his  breast,  his  eyes  popping  from  his  head,  he 
sprang  into  the  icy  current.  Swimming  with  desperate 
strokes  he  was  soon  on  the  east  bank,  and  another 
bound  or  two  brought  him  in  front  of  O-Wan-Sa- 
Duta's  cabin.  There  he  was  halted  by  a  sentry,  who 
struck  him  across  the  chest  with  a  pike,  knocking  his 
breath  away.  When  he  recovered,  he  demanded  the 
cause  of  such  unseemly  conduct.  The  sentry  told  him 
gruffly  that  the  king  was  asleep ;  he  wanted  no  disturb- 
ances outside  of  his  apartment. 

Wa-Kan-Nah,  taken  aback,  informed  him  that  he 
had  brought  news  of  a  complete  victory  over  Chun- 
Eh-Hoe,  it  must  be  conveyed  to  the  king  at  once. 

The  sentry  shook  his  head.  "My  orders  are  to  let 
his  majesty  sleep.     They  cannot  be  disobeyed." 

So  the  exhausted  and  disappointed  messenger  pre- 
pared to  wait  his  king's  pleasure,  his  slim  body  swept 
by  the  bitter  east  wind  from  the  river.  His  head  be- 
came dizzy,  he  felt  chilly,  and  an  unsteadiness  came 
into  his  long  thin  legs.  An  old  m.an,  a  soothsayer,  from 
one  of  the  southern  valleys,  who  had  been  waiting  two 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  199 

days  for  an  audience  with  the  king,  noted  the  boy's 
symptoms  of  exhaustion  and  handed  him  his  staff,  a 
long  linden  pole,  to  lean  upon. 

Wa-Kan-Nah  rested  his  tired  form  on  it,  and  his 
weight  bore  it  into  the  freezing  ground.  His  head  be- 
came dizzier,  his  frame  rocked,  and  he  swung  around 
like  a  top,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  lay  at  the  foot  of  his 
staff,  stone  dead. 

At  dark,  when  the  king  awakened  from  his  twenty- 
four  hour  doze,  his  servants  mformed  him  of  the  great 
victory,  of  the  cutting  to  pieces  of  the  forces  of  Chun- 
Eh-Hoe,  and  how  within  an  hour  after  the  foe  had 
fled,  the  news  was  at  his  royal  camp. 

Then  one  of  the  lackeys  added,  "And  the  dispatch 
runner,  a  youth  named  Wa-Kan-Nah,  son  of  one  of 
your  commanders,  dropped  dead." 

The  king  rolled  over  on  his  couch  and  muttered, 
"Dropped  dead,  eh?  He  must  have  been  a  weakling. 
Throw  his  cursed  corpse  into  the  river.'' 

Then  he  turned  his  back  on  his  servants  and  began 
snoring.  The  attendants  withdrew  and  did  as  their 
master  ordered,  pitching  the  lifeless  form  of  the  brave 
messenger  into  the  cold  torrent,  swept  with  the  autumn 
winds.  But  they  forgot  to  remove  the  long  staff,  the 
pole  of  linden,  on  which  he  had  leaned  so  heavily,  that 
it  penetrated  the  cold  earth.  And  it  was  destined  to 
take  root,  and  next  spring,  when  O-Wan-Sa-Duta  had 
moved  his  royal  lodge  house  to  the  meadows  at  Mount 
Union,  it  blossomed  forth  into  pale  green  foliage. 
Stronger  and  bolder  it  grew,  until  it  became  an  arboreal 


200  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

giant  of  vast  height  and  girth,  watching  the  dynasties  of 
kings  rise  and  fall,  the  centuries  pass  as  days,  braving 
all  storms,  except  the  driving  flood  of  1889,  which 
eventually  carried  it  away. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  201 

XIV. 
THE  GIRL  AND  THE  PANTHER. 

A  STORY  FROM  TERRACE  MOUNTAIN. 

VISITORS  to  Juniata  College,  alma  mater  of 
Governors  and  patriots,  after  wandering  over 
its  superb  upland  campus  far  above  the  blue 
w^aters  of  the  Juniata  and  the  city  of  Huntingdon,  have 
noticed  lying  off  to  the  southeast  the  giant  outlines  of 
the  Terrace  Mountain.  This  isolated  ridge  commands 
respect  by  its  appalling  size,  rising  defiantly  against  the 
horizon,  a  titan  in  a  family  of  mountain  monarchs. 
Once  seen,  the  impression  persists  through  the  years,  its 
image  is  as  clear  cut  as  the  pyramids  of  Egypt. 

When  the  first  settlers  penetrated  the  Juniata  coun- 
try they  were  deeply  awed  by  Terrace  Mountain,  not 
only  by  its  size  and  grandeur,  but  by  numbers  of  fierce 
beasts  which  it  harbored  in  its  trackless  forest  covers. 
There  were  seemingly  all  kinds,  a  Noah's  ark  of  di- 
versity, all  the  way  from  the  moose,  the  bison,  the  pan- 
ther or  Pennsylvania  lion,  the  grey  wolf,  the  bay  lynx, 
down  to  the  flying  squirrel  and  the  chipmunk. 

Of  these  the  most  characteristically  American  was 
Felis  Couguar,  that  huge  cat-like  animal  called  by  the 
first  settlers  the  panther  or  "painter."  The  American 
prototype  of  the  lion,  it  has  all  the  ferocity  and  nobility 


202  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

of  the  African  and  Asiatic  king  of  beasts.  In  size  it 
is  little  inferior  to  the  biggest  African  Hons,  panthers 
having  been  killed  in  Pennsylvania  which  measured 
over  eleven  feet  "from  tip  to  tip."  In  bravery  it  will 
rank  second  to  none,  always  defending  its  young  to  the 
last  extremity,  and  charging  its  hunters  when  wounded. 
But  there  is  practically  no  authentic  record  of  a  Penn- 
sylvania lion  or  panther  having  attacked  a  human  being 
without  first  being  provoked.  Its  infernal  night-time 
roar,  though  set  in  higher  key  than  the  thundering  of 
the  lion  of  the  Atlas  so  vividly  described  by  the  Spahi, 
Jules  Gerard,  is  none  the  less  impressive,  the  grandest 
voice  of  nature  in  the  Pennsylvania  wilderness.  In 
destructiveness  its  misdeeds  were  nil  compared  with  its 
good  works.  It  preyed  on  weak  or  sickly  deer  or  elk, 
weeded  out  the  old  and  infirm  animals,  thereby  pre- 
venting the  spread  of  pestilences  and  keeping  the  deer 
family  at  all  times  virile  and  active. 

When  the  panthers  were  destroyed  the  deer  de- 
teriorated just  as  the  buffaloes,  elands,  and  antelopes 
in  Portuguese  East  Africa  succumbed  to  the  rinderpest 
after  the  destruction  of  the  lions.  In  sagacity  it  ranked 
far  above  all  other  American  animals  except  the  wolf; 
it  possessed  an  uncanny  intelligence.  As  a  picturesque 
feature  of  Pennsylvania  mountain  life  it  created  a  host 
of  romances,  it  was  a  pre-eminent  source  of  mystery 
and  wonderment.  In  point  of  prevalence  in  the  early 
settler  days  it  was  almost  as  numerous  as  the  wolf,  with 
which  it  sometimes  fought  for  the  supremacy  of  the 
forests.     Bill  Perry  killed  a  panther  in  Centre  County 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  203 

in  1 870,  the  head  of  which  was  scarred  from  frequent 
battles.  Trapped  and  hunted  at  all  seasons  of  the  year, 
the  Pennsylvania  lion  maintained  a  brave  fight  for  ex- 
istence, and  though  now  classed  by  some  with  the  ex- 
tinct animals  of  the  State,  there  are  at  least  a  hundred 
reputable  mountaineers  who  will  tell  of  having  heard 
or  seen  panthers  within  our  borders  durmg  the  past  five 
years.  The  last  to  be  killed  were  a  nest  of  cubs  taken 
by  "Clem"  Herlacher  in  Treaster  Valley,  Mifflin 
County,  in  the  spring  of  1893. 

There  were  two  races  of  panthers  in  the  State :  those 
which  maintained  a  fixed  abode  in  some  ravine  or  val- 
ley, and  those  which  wandered  from  county  to  county, 
or  from  West  Virginia  to  Northern  Pennsylvania. 
TTiose  having  a  fixed  abode  were  quickest  exterminated 
— as  a  general  thing — but  there  were  panthers  on  Rock 
Run  longer  than  in  any  other  part  of  the  State,  except 
in  Treaster  Valley.  John  McGowan,  a  track-walker, 
saw  a  panther  sunning  itself  on  a  flat  rock  near  the 
mouth  of  Rock  Run  in  1910.  Panthers  in  considerable 
numbers  lingered  longest  on  Rock  Run,  and  in  the  en- 
tire Beech  Creek  region  for  that  matter.  Though 
probably  not  extinct  in  this  State,  they  have  not  bred 
here  since  Herlacher  broke  up  the  last  "nests"  in 
Treaster  Valley  in  1892  and  1893.  Usually  four 
cubs  were  born  early  in  April,  but  sometimes  there 
were  as  many  as  six  at  a  birth;  the  rutting  season  in 
Pennsylvania  occurred  at  Christmas  time. 

There  was  a  great  diversity  in  appearance  among  the 
lions  of  Pennsylvania;   some  were  very  dark,   others 


204  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

almost  red,  but  the  prevailing  color  was  a  slatey  gray, 
with  orange  or  fulvus  tinges  about  the  ears,  throat  and 
belly.  The  males  outnumbered  the  females  by  about 
five  to  one.  The  tails  were  thick  and  long,  with  a  tuft 
of  hair  almost  as  profuse  as  on  the  tip  of  an  African 
lion's  tail.  On  very  rare  occasions  panthers  with  manes 
were  taken;  one  of  the  last  of  such  was  killed  in  the 
Bald  Eagle  Mountains  by  the  celebrated  frontiersman, 
Peter  Pentz,  in  1  797. 

Many  and  curious  were  the  legends  clustered  about 
these  savage  beasts,  especially  in  the  Great  Terrace 
country  where  they  were  so  numerous  that  the  first 
settlers  thought  it  nothing  remarkable  to  kill  eight  to 
ten  in  a  winter.  These  rough  frontiersmen  were  enjoy- 
ing the  same  wholesale  slaughter  miscalled  "sport" 
which  wealthy  young  Americans  can  now  only  find  by 
traveling  to  British  East  Africa.  What  an  argument 
for  conservation! 

Jake  Faddy,  the  old  Indian  story  teller,  was  spend- 
ing a  night  at  a  farmhouse  on  Little  Trough  Creek 
when  one  of  the  last  panthers  killed  on  the  Terrace 
Mountain  was  brought  in.  It  was  a  half-grown  ani- 
mal, about  five  feet  long,  but  its  capture  in  a  bear  trap 
created  no  end  of  excitement,  making  heroes  out  of  its 
two  youthful  slayers,  the  McConnel  boys.  The  grand- 
father of  the  young  Nimrods,  old  Joseph  McConnel, 
had  many  stirring  panther  stories  to  relate  that  even- 
ing, but  it  remained  for  the  Indian  guest,  Jake  Faddy, 
to  unfold  the  most  remarkable  anecdote. 

When  old  McConnel  was  a  young  man  he  had 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  205 

hunted  panthers  every  winter  for  the  bounties.  It  was 
wonderful  sport,  even  when  the  county  became  so 
flooded  with  bounty  appHcations  that  it  stopped  pay- 
ment for  a  time,  and  the  fur  dealers  ceased  buying  the 
hides,  they  had  so  many.  Panther  hides  were  shipped 
by  the  bale  to  Germany,  which  now  strangely  enough 
is  the  principal  market  for  the  pelts  of  African  lions. 
One  year  McConnel  killed  so  many  panthers  that  he 
covered  the  four  sides  of  his  father's  barn  with  the  hides. 
As  there  was  no  market  for  them,  they  hung  there  until 
they  were  blown  down  by  the  winds.  It  was  no  un- 
common thing  in  those  days  to  hear  four  or  five  pan- 
thers roaring  on  the  Terrace  Mountain  in  a  single  night. 
First  one  to  the  south  would  begin,  then  a  second  a  mile 
away  would  take  it  up,  passing  the  wierd  call  on  to  a 
fourth  a  mile  further  on,  or  a  fifth,  until  the  whole 
mountain  would  reverberate  with  the  savage  love  notes. 
When  the  cry  would  be  heard  up  on  the  mountain  back 
of  the  farmhouse  McConnel  would  get  his  dogs  and 
start  a  chase  which  would  last  until  daylight.  Some- 
times the  panther  would  corner  the  dogs  in  a  hole  in 
the  rocks,  and  leave  them  bleeding  and  dying  before 
the  hunter  could  reach  the  spot.  A  light  tracking  snow 
was  the  best  time  to  hunt  the  brutes,  when  they  could 
be  followed  to  their  caves  on  ledges,  or  under  over- 
hanging rocks,  and  shot  before  they  hurt  the  dogs.  But 
many  of  them  got  into  bear  or  wolf  traps,  which  were 
scattered  all  over  the  mountains.  That  was  an  inglori- 
ous end  for  Pennsylvania's  king  of  beasts,  as  the  hunt- 
ers usually  beat  the  snarling  monsters  to  death  with  the 


206  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

butts  of  their  rifles.  Sometimes  the  traps  were  not  vis- 
ited regularly  and  the  victims  succumbed  to  starvation 
or  exposure. 

When  the  veteran  hunter  had  finished,  old  Jake 
Faddy  began  his  narrative.  He  told  of  hunting  pan- 
thers in  Indiai.  days.  Then  the  exciting  sport  was  car- 
ried on  with  long  oaken  or  hickory  stakes,  sharpened  at 
the  ends  like  spears.  The  panther  not  being  associated 
with  any  clan  name  and  being  an  enemy  of  the  wolf, 
was  hunted  more  persistently  than  other  animals.  Its 
hide  was  used  for  many  purposes,  ceremonial  and  do- 
mestic. The  "great  medicine"  was  always  kept  in  a 
pouch  made  from  it.  Its  meat  was  relished  even  above 
the  flesh  of  the  bison.  Its  blood  gave  courage  to  war- 
riors, when  drunk  fresh.  Its  claws  hung  around  the 
neck  by  a  cord  were  amulets  ot  good  luck.  Its  teeth 
were  much  prized  as  decorations  for  the  person.  Shoes 
fashioned  from  its  paws  made  young  Indians  grow  tall 
and  strong.  Its  tongue  was  the  favorite  tid-bit  for 
banquets  of  the  chiefs.  A  decoction  made  from  its 
eyes  prolonged  life.  Its  bones  made  excellent  cutlery. 
The  tuft  of  its  tail  made  a  warrior's  war  plume.  None 
of  it  was  wasted,  all  of  it  was  much  desired.  Despite 
the  fact  that  it  was  systematically  hunted,  there  was 
no  intention  to  exterminate  it;  the  Indians  were  too 
sensible  for  that.  It  had  too  many  valuable  attributes 
for  such  a  short-sighted  procedure. 

The  hunting  was  generally  done  in  the  fall  and  early 
winter,  when  the  animals  were  fattest  and  the  hides  in 
prime  condition.    Once  in  a  while  reports  were  brought 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  207 

to  the  camps  of  panthers  attacking  human  beings,  espe- 
cially children.  Many  braves  were  foHovvedl  at  night 
over  hill  and  dale,  with  the  tawny  monsters  uttering 
their  mournful  cries,  but  always  keeping  at  a  respectful 
distance  in  the  rear. 

There  was  one  episode  of  a  young  girl  named 
Sextua,  which  happened  shortly  after  the  arrival  of  the 
Shawnees  from  Florida  in  the  Juniata  Valley.  The 
newcomers  did  not  know  the  country  very  well,  and 
many  of  them,  becoming  separated  from  their  cohorts, 
fell  into  the  hands  of  the  local  Indians  and  were  mas- 
sacred. Many  of  the  journeys  which  ended  so  disas- 
trously were  caused  by  curiosity  to  see  the  wonderful 
scenery,  "the  masterwork  of  the  Great  Wolf,"  they 
called  it.  They  were  especially  charmed  with  the 
Terrace  Mountain,  spending  days  wandering  over  its 
wall-like  precipices.  They  were  silenced,  mystified  by 
the  grandeur  of  this  long  solitary  highland. 

It  was  probably  much  as  the  gifted  David  Emmert 
expressed  it,  that  "it  is  no  reflection  upon  the  imagina- 
tive or  moral  qualities  of  the  ancients  that  they  per- 
sonified the  mountains  and  made  them  the  eternal 
dwelling  places  of  the  gods." 

If  the  home  of  the  Gitchie-Manitto  was  possible  of 
discovery  it  seemed  to  the  awe-struck  Shawnees  that  it 
must  be  on  the  Terrace  Mountain,  for  there  were  sur- 
roundings of  magnitude  and  impressiveness  in  keeping 
with  their  conception  of  the  Great  Spirit. 

Sextua  was  a  maiden  of  charming  appearance,  of 
uncommon  intellectual  gifts.     She  felt  the  beauty  and 


208  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

mystery  of  the  mountains,  yet  beyond  that  she  seemed 
to  grasp  at  the  hidden  meanings,  the  relation  between 
the  material  and  spiritual.  Therefore  she  took  the 
deepest  pleasure  in  wandering  over  the  wild  crests  and 
gorges  back  of  the  Shawnee  settlement,  which  was  lo- 
cated at  the  foot  of  the  eastern  slope  of  Terrace  Moun- 
tain. While  her  father,  the  good  Tahwahke,  her 
brothers  and  her  sweetheart,  the  brave  Kussowe,  were 
busily  engaged  building  the  lodge  houses  and  cabins, 
clearing  ground,  and  replenishing  the  larder,  she  in- 
dulged in  walks  over  the  mighty  mountains  that  com- 
manded the  country  for  miles  in  every  direction.  As 
contemplation  alone  would  not  justify  her  lengthy 
rambles,  she  gathered  many  rare  medicinal  herbs  and 
roots. 

As  the  summer  shaded  into  autumn  she  had  collected 
a  goodly  store  for  the  winter's  use,  and  became  well 
acquainted  with  the  forest  by-paths.  Often  did  she 
encounter  game  in  the  mountain  fastness — the  moose, 
the  elk,  the  deer,  wild  turkeys,  heath  cocks,  grouse, 
quail  and  wild  pigeons  were  to  her  like  old  acquaint- 
ances— they  hardly  stirred  themselves  at  her  approach. 
They  were  such  beautiful  and  trustful  creatures,  it 
seemed  a  shame  that  so  many  of  them  were  being 
slaughtered  for  the  winter's  supply  of  her  tribe.  But 
then  she  also  saw  some  of  the  fiercer  animals,  the  fisher, 
the  grey  fox,  the  wolf,  the  black  bear  and  once  she  saw 
a  huge  yellow  panther.  When  she  saw  these  creatures 
the  old  primal  instinct  rose  up  in  her,  she  wished  for  a 
spear  or  javelin.    But  as  none  of  these  animals  molested 


u 
< 

a: 

a: 

H 

H 
< 

cc 

O 

UJ 

X 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  209 

her,  she  gradually  viewed  things  from  their  standpoint, 
that  they  had  as  much  right  to  live  as  the  more  inof- 
fensive animals  and  birds. 

When  she  returned  from  her  strolls  she  would  no 
longer  go  to  the  edge  of  the  camp  where  the  women 
and  children  stood  admiring  the  results  of  the  day's 
hunt,  gaping  at  the  long  line  of  carcasses  of  elk,  deer 
and  buffalo,  the  huge  piles  of  dead  pigeons,  heath- 
cocks  and  turkeys.  It  sickened  her  now,  since  she  had 
learned  to  love  these  things  alive.  Such  impressions 
made  her  a  vegetarian.  As  long  as  life  could  be  sus- 
tained on  vegetables,  nuts  and  fruit,  it  was  a  heartless 
being  who  demanded  the  lives  of  animals  and  birds  for 
food.  She  no  longer  praised  her  lover's  prowess  as  a 
hunter,  but  urged  him  to  excel  in  decoration  or  story 
telling,  in  any  of  the  higher  forms  of  existence.  She 
was  apart  from  her  race,  and  all  because  she  had  pene- 
trated nature's  reserve  and  heard  its  side  of  the  story. 
Often  her  mother  and  other  squaws  would  caution  her 
about  her  long  walks,  the  danger  of  getting  lost  or  be- 
ing devoured  by  savage  beasts. 

But  Sextua  never  listened  very  attentively;  these, 
she  thought,  were  "old  wives'  tales,"  unworthy  of  be- 
lief by  one  who  really  knew  the  forest  and  its  denizens. 
As  she  always  came  back  safely,  aglow  with  health 
and  happiness,  bearing  strings  of  rare  medicinal  roots 
and  herbs,  she  gradually  laughed  down  all  fear  of  the 
wilderness. 

On  one  occasion,  it  was  in  the  late  summer,  when  a 
leaf  or  two  of  yellow  was  apparent  on  the  hardwoods. 


210  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

when  the  crickets  chirping  in  the  dry  grass  gave  inti- 
mation of  a  change  in  season,  when  the  mountains 
shone  out  preternaturally  clear  in  the  mornmgs,  and  the 
nights  were  still  and  very  cool,  that  Sextua  sallied  forth 
to  explore  still  more  distant  heights  and  valleys.  V/ith 
buoyant  step  she  traversed  the  Terrace  Mountain, 
climbing  down  with  agility,  and  reaching  the  Rays- 
town  Branch  before  the  noon  hour  set  in.  Then  she 
followed  the  creek  in  a  southerly  direction  until  she 
came  upon  a  trail  which  led  up  the  Broad  Top  Moun- 
tain. 

That  mighty  mountain  was  such  an  extensive  region 
that  there  were  still  many  points  on  it  which  she  had 
never  visited.  So  she  started  to  climb  it,  marveling  at 
the  beauty  of  its  forests  and  vistas,  the  plentitude  of  its 
plant  life,  the  glory  of  its  autumn  flowers.  When  she 
attained  the  expansive  summit  she  wandered  about, 
enthralled  by  what  she  saw.  In  the  open  spaces,  un- 
der the  hardwood  trees  pastured  vast  herds  of  bison, 
countless  troops  of  deer  and  elk  that  were  migrating  in 
great  sweeping  masses  toward  the  south;  in  the  jungles 
and  ravines  bands  of  moose  stood  quiescent  in  the 
darkest  recesses.  The  cooing  of  myriads  of  wild 
pigeons  was  like  a  great  soft  hymn  of  nature;  wild 
turkeys  were  dusting  themselves  in  the  buffalo  paths, 
heath-cocks  were  "booming,"  ruffled  grouse  "drum- 
ming." 

Nature's  sounds  and  ways  were  uppermost.  Man, 
with  his  forest  fires,  his  bloody  "sport,"  his  "civiliza- 
tion," had  made  no  entering  wedge.     Sextua  lingered 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  211 

in  this  wild  tableland  until  the  sun  declined  and  shone 
red  through  the  vistas  in  the  trees.  The  katydids' 
chorus  that  night  was  at  hand  before  she  realized  that 
she  was  far  from  the  sheltering  camp  of  the  Shawnees. 
With  quickened  pace  she  started  for  the  northern  edge 
of  the  big  mountain,  but  it  seemed  as  if  she  would 
never  reach  it. 

On  and  on  she  went,  the  night  becoming  darker  and 
colder,  but  she  was  still  on  the  broad  plateau.  Every 
time  she  saw  a  declivity  or  hollow  where  a  water  course 
had  run  in  the  spring  she  followed  it,  penetrating 
deeper  and  deeper  into  the  trackless  wilderness.  She 
had  a  good  sense  of  direction,  she  had  never  been  lost 
before,  yet  this  time  she  was  pitting  her  skill  against  a 
vast  region  and  many  miles  from  her  destination.  Sev- 
eral times  she  slipped  on  rocks,  or  tripped  over  trailing 
vines,  and  her  sensitive  nature  was  frightened  by  sud- 
den glimpses  of  fox-fire  on  rotting  stabs  or  logs.  Off 
in  the  forest  she  could  hear  a  myriad  of  nature's  sounds, 
the  wild  cat  tonguing  the  rabbit,  wolves  quarreling,  the 
trumpeting  of  moose,  the  hooting  of  owls,  the  sad  songs 
of  kildeers,  the  soughing  of  the  night  wind  among  the 
tall  white  pines.  If  she  had  realized  that  the  best  thing 
to  do  would  have  been  to  sit  down  until  morning,  all 
would  have  been  well.  But  instead  she  temporarily 
forgot  her  excellence  as  a  woodswoman  and  plunged 
on  ahead  to  get  out  at  any  cost. 

Every  moment  the  forest  seemed  vaster,  blacker, 
more  impenetrable.  The  roar  of  the  wind  became 
more  violent,  as  if  a  storm  was  imminent.    Tears  came 


212  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

to  Sextua's  eyes.  It  was  terrible  to  be  alone  in  such 
a  place;  if  only  she  had  some  one  to  lean  upon,  to  lead 
her  out  into  the  light.  Like  a  blind  person,  with  hands 
extended,  she  struggled  on,  bumping  her  feet  and  shins, 
scratching  her  fair  face  with  briars.  At  length  she 
came  into  a  thicket  of  brambles  that  was  so  dense  she 
could  go  no  further.  She  stopped,  folding  her  arms, 
thoroughly  discouraged.  It  was  then  that  she  felt 
something  brush  against  her  skirts,  something  soft  and 
living.  Straining  her  eyes  she  beheld  the  form  of  an 
enormous  panther  standing  beside  her  in  the  attitude 
of  a  domestic  cat,  with  head  raised  as  if  to  have  its  fur 
stroked ! 

Before  she  had  time  to  scream  with  alarm  the  crea- 
ture spoke  to  her  in  purring,  reassuring  tones,  and  in 
her  own,  the  Shawnee,  tongue ! 

"Sextua,"  it  said,  calling  her  by  name,  "I  feel  very 
sorry  for  you  out  here  in  this  jungle  at  night.  I  have 
followed  you  since  early  morning,  as  I  always  do  when 
you  go  for  your  walks,  but  I  feared  to  distress  you  by 
placing  myself  in  evidence.  I  mean  no  harm.  I  have 
never  molested  a  human  being,  nor  ever  seen  one  I  liked 
until  my  eyes  first  rested  on  you.  If  you  will  allow,  I 
will  conduct  you  in  safety  by  the  easiest  route  to  your 
father's  camp,  will  have  you  there  by  daybreak,  for  I 
know  all  the  forest  byways." 

The  big  cat's  voice  and  manner  were  so  reassuring 
that  the  girl  gladly  accepted  his  proffered  services  as 
guide  out  of  the  wilderness.  And  no  mistakes  were 
made.     Deftly  brushing  aside  the  briars  with  sweeps 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  213 

of  his  long,  powerful  tail,  he  soon  had  his  beautiful 
charge  on  a  smooth  path  which  led  along  the  brow  of 
the  great  mountain. 

"This  is  a  path  carved  out  by  the  panthers,"  was 
his  next  attempt  at  conversation,  begun  only  when  he 
was  sure  that  they  were  out  of  all  bramble  patches 
and  the  girl's  calmness  restored. 

"It  leads  along  the  side  of  the  ridge  until  it  gets  over 
the  waters  of  Trough  Creek,  when  it  descends  into 
the  valley.  It  is  the  smoothest  and  quickest  route  off 
the  mountain,  except  the  buffalo  path,  which  is  worn 
too  deep  in  some  places  for  a  lady's  comfort." 

Sextua  thanked  the  big  feline  for  his  thoughtfulness, 
making  him  sure  of  his  ground.  Evidently  he  wanted 
to  be  friends,  but  feared  to  frighten  her  before  she 
could  see  the  fine  sides  to  his  nature. 

"You  did  not  know  that  I  followed  you  every  time 
you  went  walking  in  the  mountains.  I  moved  so 
quietly  that  you  could  not  hear  me,  yet  many  times  I 
was  at  your  side,  and  generally  at  your  heels,  I  kept 
you  from  all  harm.  I  longed  for  a  chance  to  make 
myself  known,  but  I  knew  how  most  Indians  feel 
toward  the  race  of  panthers:  the  men  hate  and  kill  us. 
the  women  fear  and  run  away  from  us.  But  now  I 
could  do  you  a  favor,  and  you  can  see  that  I  mean  no 
harm.  This  is  the  proudest  moment  of  my  life  to  be 
with  you,  to  be  escorting  you  back  to  your  encamp- 
ment." 

The  girl  could  hardly  believe  her  senses.  Was  the 
panther  really  speaking,  or  was  it  some  Indian  ventrilo- 


214  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

quist  cleverly  concealed  In  the  brush  who  was  throwing 
his  voice  in  that  direction?  Feeling  that  she  must  re- 
turn the  brute's  compliments,  she  said  that  she  appre- 
ciated his  goodness,  and  once  safely  restored  to  her 
tribe  she  would  use  all  her  influence  to  abate  the  cruel 
sport  of  panther  hunting.  She  especially  abhorred 
hunting  panthers  with  the  sharp  stakes,  she  said;  it  in- 
flicted such  a  painful  death  on  the  animals. 

By  this  time  they  had  come  to  the  part  of  the  path 
where  it  began  winding  its  way  off  Broad  Top.  The 
girl  was  now  sensibly  relieved,  as  it  would  not  be  long 
now  until  she  was  in  a  familiar  country.  All  the  while 
her  savage  escort  entertained  her  with  naive  remarks, 
more  or  less  of  a  complimentary  nature.  Clearly  he 
was  smitten  with  her;  she  would  be  glad  to  get  away 
from  him  as  she  could  not  very  well  retort  in  kind. 
Besides,  her  lover,  Kussowe,  had  won  fame  as  a  slayer 
of  panthers;  his  specialty  was  overtaking  them  in  the 
forest, — he  was  a  swift  runner, — and  impaling  them 
through  the  heart  with  his  sharp  stakes.  She  could  not 
love  a  slayer  of  panthers  and  be  loved  by  a  probable 
victim  at  the  same  time.  Soon  the  foot  of  the  mountain 
was  reached,  and  Great  Trough  Creek  crossed  on  a 
stony  ford.  After  they  were  across  the  stream  the 
worst  of  the  journey  was  over.  The  panther,  noting 
this,  became  still  more  personal  in  his  talk. 

"What  I  admired  so  much  about  you,"  he  said,  "is 
your  ability  to  amuse  yourself  alone.  In  the  solitude 
of  the  forest  you  seemed  to  be  as  happy  as  if  in  the 
midst  of  a  populous  camp.     Often  have  I  felt  sorry 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  215 

for  you  in  your  loneliness,  because  I  thought  that  you 
would  be  happier  if  you  had  somebody  with  you  to 
enjoy  your  knowledge  of  plants,  your  appreciation  of 
beauty." 

Sextua  did  not  answer  him,  she  was  so  wrapped  up 
in  the  thought  that  her  trip  was  almost  over,  her  perils 
at  an  end. 

At  length  she  could  contain  herself  no  longer.  "See, 
over  there  on  the  other  side  of  the  valley,  that  camp- 
fire,  it  is  the  Shawnee  settlement ;  we  will  soon  be  to  it. 
I  am  so  happy!" 

The  gray  dawn  was  beginning  to  penetrate  the  open- 
ings in  the  forest,  and  the  huge  panther  could  see  his 
fair  companion,  and  watched  her  expression  closely. 

"I  will  be  so  happy  to  see  the  one  I  love  best,"  she 
rambled  on. 

The  panther  could  hardly  suppress  a  growl  as  he 
asked  her  dryly,  'T  suppose  by  the  one  you  love  best 
you  refer  to  your  father?" 

Sextua,  quite  unconsciously,  replied,  "Yes,  I  do 
love  him,  but  I  love  best  of  all  my  sweetheart,  Kus- 
sowe;  I  do  believe  he  is  the  only  person  I  really  truly 
love." 

That  was  too  much  for  the  love-crazed  panther;  he 
was  a  wild  beast  again;  he  could  control  his  feelings 
no  longer.  Jealousy,  added  to  pent-up  emotion,  made 
him  a  demon.  His  yellow  eyes  flashed,  his  jaws  snap- 
ped. Springing  at  the  beautiful  girl  he  bore  her  to  the 
earth,  where  she  gasped  out  her  life,  literally  dying  of 
fright. 


216  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

Too  late  the  panther  saw  what  he  had  done,  and 
remorse  overtook  him.  But  the  harm  was  done,  the 
beautiful  spirit  had  fled.  Skulking  away  like  the  wild 
beast  that  he  was,  he  soon  lost  himself  in  the  forest 
labyrinths ;  all  his  way  up  the  steep  mountain  moaning 
and  sobbing  like  a  child.  During  the  morning  a  search- 
ing party  headed  by  Kussowe  found  the  dead  girl, 
with  only  a  scratch  on  one  cheek.  It  might  have  been 
caused  by  a  wild  beast,  yet  surely  it  did  not  kill  her, 
9rt  reasoned  the  bereaved  lover. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  217 

XV. 

THE  STANDING  STONE. 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  ANCIENT  ONEIDAS. 

ALL  the  historical  traditions  of  the  Oneidas  laid 
stress  on  their  southern  origin.  Certainly  they 
had  come  from  as  far  South  as  the  valley  of  the 
Juniata,  if  not  further.  They  were  probably  one  of 
the  many  southern  tribes  which  held  possession  of  the 
Juniata  country  for  a  time.  Where  they  originally 
came  from  is  shrouded  in  mystery,  if  we  exclude  the 
premise  that  the  Juniata  Valley  had  been  their  perma- 
nent, old-time  home.  It  is  the  antiquity  of  environ- 
ment that  appeals  to  every  thinking  man  or  woman. 
Those  who  travel  to  European  countries  think  it  is  the 
"change  of  scene,"  but  it  is  not,  it  is  the  desire  to  asso- 
ciate oneself  with  places  where  man  has  dwelt  and 
struggled  for  centuries.  As  proof,  give  the  average 
traveler  a  chance  to  decide  between  a  trip  to  Spain  or 
California.  Unless  he  is  a  native  Californian,  and 
knows  its  history  and  people,  he  will  choose  Spain — 
every  time. 

When  all  know  the  antiquity  of  the  Pennsylvania 
mountains  better  they  will  feel  a  deeper  love  for  their 
home  environment,  and  not  seek  to  link  themselves  with 
some  established  proof  of  man's  presence  elsewhere. 


218  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

It  is  not  the  visual  beauty  of  the  mountain  or  the  ruined 
castle  that  we  love,  but  the  spiritual  conception  which 
is  the  history  of  the  traditions  of  the  human  beings  who 
peopled  them.  And  more  valuable  than  the  stacks 
and  stone  crushers  as  upbuilders  of  character  will  be 
the  ancient  lore  of  the  Juniata,  if  it  be  collected  and 
tabulated  before  it  is  too  late. 

As  far  as  can  be  learned  there  were  three  distinct 
Standing  Stones  concerned  in  the  history  of  the  Oneidas 
and  their  followers.  The  first  one,  the  gift  of  the  Git- 
chie-Manitto,  was  as  old  as  man  himself.  The  second 
one,  described  by  John  Harris,  the  younger,  as  he  saw 
it  in  1  754,  was  fourteen  feet  high  and  six  feet  square, 
and  stood  on  the  right  bank  of  Stone  Creek  near  its 
mouth. 

Soon  after  Harris  saw  it  the  Tuscarora  Indians,  who 
were  related  to  the  Oneidas,  and  came  to  the  Standing 
Stone  about  1712,  removed  the  stone  with  them  to 
Canada.  The  third  stone,  a  part  of  which,  rescued 
from  the  wall  of  a  bake  oven,  is  now  in  the  library  of 
Juniata  College  at  Standing  Stone  Town  or  Hunting- 
don, was  erected  probably  as  a  surveyor's  corner  on 
the  same  spot  where  the  earlier  stones  had  stood. 

On  the  third  stone  was  carved  the  names  of  many 
white  men,  surveyors,  prospectors,  politicians,  with 
dates  varying  from  1 768  to  1 770.  Before  it  was 
broken  up  to  build  a  bake  oven  it  was  moved  to  near 
where  the  old  court  house  in  Huntingdon  formerly 
stood.  Much  has  been  written  concerning  the  two 
later  stones,  various  have  been  the  hypotheses  advanced 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  219 

to  account  for  them.  Certain  it  is  that  the  first  two 
stones  were  used  by  the  Indians  to  inscribe  their  glo- 
rious history,  the  records  of  their  battles  and  triumphs. 
The  second  stone  had  an  antiquity  not  to  be  sneered  at, 
having  braved  the  elements  for  at  least  a  century  or 
from  the  time  when  the  true  Oneidas  departed  for  the 
North. 

The  Tuscaroras  attempted  to  imitate  their  glories, 
their  veneration  of  a  Standing  Stone,  their  battles  to 
defend  it,  but  they  were  only  pale  shadows  of  the  an- 
cient people.  The  Indian  burying  ground,  on  the  high 
land  near  where  the  old  Presbyterian  Church  stood,  at 
Huntingdon,  was  very  extensive  when  found  by  the 
first  settlers.  But  it  gave  no  idea  of  the  vast  number 
of  interments  in  it,  or  of  its  venerable  age.  It  is  stated 
by  those  who  heard  it  from  the  aged  Indian  story  tellers 
that  the  main  body  of  the  Oneidas  departed  for  what 
is  now  New  York  State  about  the  beginning  of  the 
seventeenth  century,  few  lingered  on  until  after  the 
Tuscaroras  arrived. 

Jones  in  his  "History  of  the  Juniata  Valley"  quotes 
Dr.  B.  S.  Barton,  an  authority,  as  stating  that 
Oneida  meant  "Standing  Stone."  A  similar  defi- 
nition is  given  in  the  "Handbook  of  American  In- 
dians," published  by  the  United  States  Government. 
With  so  much  diversity  of  opinion  as  usually  exists  re- 
garding Indian  words,  it  is  probably  correct. 

When  the  Oneidas  were  in  their  glory  at  Standing 
Stone,  theirs  was  an  Indian  metropolis.  It  is  stated 
that  between  three  and  four  thousand  redmen  resided 


220  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

in  and  about  the  giant  settlement.  The  buildings  were 
of  a  permanent  type  of  construction,  with  streets  and 
alleys  terminating  in  a  basilica  or  public  meeting  place, 
in  the  center  of  which  stood  the  sacred  Standing  Stone. 
There  on  New  Year's  Day,  with  great  display  and 
ceremony  the  high  priests  performed  the  rite  of  chisel- 
ing the  tribe's  achievements  for  the  past  twelve-month 
on  the  stone.  Sacrifices  were  offered  up,  there  was 
fasting,  prayer,  dancing  and  song,  to  commemorate 
the  valorous  deeds  of  the  Oneidas. 

The  tradition  was  that  the  Great  Spirit  gave  the 
stone  to  his  favorite  people  with  the  understanding  that 
they  perform  some  great  deed  each  year,  worthy  of 
recording.  It  was  to  be  carved  on  the  stone  annually 
on  the  anniversary  of  its  gift  from  the  Gitchie-Manitto. 
The  appearance  of  some  of  the  buildings  in  Standing 
Stone  TowTi  of  the  Oneidas  is  worthy  of  description. 
The  great  settlement  was  surrounded  by  two  rows  of 
palisades  eighteen  feet  high;  in  the  ramparts  were  two 
gates,  one  facing  the  west,  over  which  were  erected 
three  images  of  men  carved  out  of  wood,  and  draped 
with  the  scalps  of  their  enemies.  On  the  east  side  was 
another  gateway  similarly  adorned.  The  western  gate 
was  three  feet  wide,  the  eastern  gate  two  feet.  Within 
the  central  palisade  were  several  hundred  lodge  houses 
of  imposing  dimensions.  These  houses  were  built  of 
logs,  covered  with  the  bark  of  trees.  Every  lodge 
house  was  provided  with  open  fireplaces,  some  having 
as  many  as  a  dozen  in  them.  There  were  large  store 
houses  where  thousands  of  bushels  of  Indian  corn  were 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  221 

kept.  The  facades  of  some  of  the  larger  houses,  which 
were  often  two  hundred  feet  in  length,  were  paneled, 
and  on  these  panels  painted  pictures  of  all  sorts  of 
animals  and  birds.  The  streets  were  teeming  with  life, 
hunters,  trades-people,  warriors,  housewives,  children, 
all  attending  to  their  respective  tasks.  But  no  Indian 
could  leave  or  enter  the  "castle,"  as  the  town  was 
called,  without  giving  the  password  to  the  gatekeepers. 

The  position  of  gatekeeper  was  a  very  honorable 
one,  and  was  hereditary.  On  the  high  ground,  where 
the  graveyard  was  situated,  in  shady  corners  of  which 
the  ghost-flower  grew,  all  was  neatness  and  precision. 
The  graves  were  in  the  shape  of  mounds,  surrounded 
with  small  palisades  nicely  closed  up,  and  painted  red, 
white  and  black.  There  were  gateways  to  the  graves 
of  the  chiefs,  on  the  top  of  the  gates  were  effigies  of 
large  birds,  and  on  the  fences  were  painted  all  manner 
of  grotesque  animals,  birds  and  snakes. 

This  description  of  the  Oneida  Castle  at  Standing 
Stone  in  its  hey-day  is  reminiscent  of  Arent  Van 
Curler's  account  of  his  visit  to  some  of  the  castles  of 
the  same  tribe  many  years  later  (1634)  in  Northern 
New  York.  The  Oneidas,  always  a  superior  people, 
are  the  only  tribe  of  Indians  who  successfully  adopted 
the  white  man's  civilization  in  New  York.  Their 
farms  are  described  as  veritable  garden  spots. 

But  like  many  cities  and  races  that  have  a 
"golden  age,"  a  period  of  decadence  fell  upon  the 
splendid  Oneidas  along  the  Juniata.  It  was  a  case  of 
too  many  blessings.      Everybody  was  prosperous,   no 


222  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

one  had  to  worry  about  making  a  living.  The  bounte- 
ous Giver  of  All  had  showered  plenty  on  his  Oneidas. 
The  cleared  fields  yielded  rich  crops  of  corn,  melons, 
and  potatoes,  the  orchards  were  laden  with  apples, 
plums,  persimmons,  and  the  peach,  which  had  been 
brought  from  the  South.  The  nut  trees  were  full  to 
overbearing,  berries  and  edible  roots  were  found  every- 
where. The  forests  teemed  with  game,  the  river  with 
clams,  mussels  and  fish.  The  seasons  were  not  un- 
kind, there  were  no  blizzards  or  tornadoes,  life  was 
easy,  supine. 

If  the  Oneidas  had  been  grateful  for  all  these  bless- 
ings, fate  might  have  worked  kinder  for  them.  But 
they  were  far  from  it,  the  more  thej'^  got,  the  more  they 
wanted.  The  less  they  had  to  work,  the  less  they 
wanted  work.  In  plain  language  they  wanted  to  sit 
under  the  trees  and  be  fed.  They  imagined  that  the 
universe  was  created  for  them,  and  it  wasn't  doing  all 
it  could  for  their  happiness.  They  begrudged  any  time 
spent  in  the  service  of  the  Power  of  Nature  as  ex- 
pressed in  the  Gitchie-Manitto.  Many  of  them  re- 
garded religious  exercises  as  "foolery"  and  wondered 
what  they  had  to  be  "thankful"  for  at  services  of 
thanksgiving.  They  looked  upon  the  New  Year  cere- 
monies as  tiresome,  the  inscribing  of  the  achievements 
of  the  year  as  superfluous.  They  were  great;  they 
knew  it ;  the  Great  Spirit,  if  he  existed,  must  also  know 
it.  They  were  sunk  to  the  lowest  depths  of  spiritual 
degradation  inasmuch  as  they  questioned  all  things, 
accepting  none. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  223 

The  leading  intellectuals  of  the  castle  held  numerous 
secret  conclaves  with  a  view  of  abandoning  the  New 
Year  ceremonies,  so  many  of  the  tribesmen  were  op- 
posed to  it.  After  all,  it  was  only  an  archaic  old 
pageant;  a  gay  dance  with  lively  music  would  best 
usher  in  the  New  Year  twelve-month.  But  it  took 
time  to  overcome  a  long-established  custom,  with  the 
memories  of  centuries  clustered  about  it,  and  little  more 
than  talk  came  of  these  meetings  of  the  innovators.  Yet 
each  year  fewer  attended  the  mystic  rites,  while  on 
the  other  hand  a  society  of  mumm.ers  who  held  a  mock 
pageant  outside  the  palisades  the  same  day,  with  wild 
orgies  and  rowdy  conduct,  was  becoming  yearl)^  more 
popular,  and  drew  twice  the  crowds. 

A  wooden  pole  painted  to  imitate  the  Standing 
Stone  was  set  up  in  a  cornfield,  around  which  the  young 
bucks  and  maidens  danced.  On  it  were  carved  all 
kinds  of  clownish  jests  at  the  sacred  language  of  the 
real  stone.  But  the  Indians  liked  to  laugh,  life  was 
sad,  it  was  so  easy  to  live,  so  hard  to  die.  In  secret 
all  had  a  grudge  against  the  Great  Spirit  as  being  the 
author  of  death;  they  felt  that  there  was  no  other  life, 
consequently  hated  to  let  go  of  the  one  in  hand. 

All  this  time  the  Great  Spirit  endured  the  falling 
away  from  grace  with  extreme  patience.  In  return  for 
agnosticism,  neglect,  contempt,  he  handed  forth  boun- 
tiful crops,  great  catches  of  fish,  mammoth  kills  of 
game,  equable  seasons,  freedom  from  pestilences,  long 
life.  Good  for  evil  was  bestowed  to  all,  but  none  were 
wise  enough  to  take  heed. 


224  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

One  evening,  shortly  before  the  New  Year,  an  easy- 
going traveler  brought  the  news  to  the  castle  that  the 
bison  had  arrived  in  Aughwick  Valley.  It  was  late 
for  their  fall  migration,  but  it  had  been  a  mild  autumn, 
and  they  lingered  longer  than  usual  on  their  southerly 
journey.  As  the  grand  bison  hunt,  which  usually  took 
place  in  the  latter  part  of  October,  "persimmon  time," 
was  an  annual  event  of  the  first  magnitude  with  the 
Oneidas,  as  with  most  of  the  other  tribes  in  Pennsyl- 
vania, there  was  a  skirmishing  among  the  braves  to  put 
their  spears,  lances,  and  bows  in  order,  to  sharpen  their 
celts  and  skinners.  Even  the  august  high  priests  began 
to  take  notice,  and  talked  hunting  instead  of  Standing 
Stone.  The  senior  priest  was  detected  sharpening  his 
skinning  knife,  when  he  should  have  been  preparing  his 
sacred  hammer  and  chisel.  If  another  messenger  had 
not  brought  news  that  some  members  of  a  tribe  from 
the  Susquehanna  Valley  were  already  at  work  slaugh- 
tering the  bison,  the  exodus  to  Aughwick  Valley  might 
not  have  been  so  general.  This  was  the  final  straw, 
every  Oneida  able  to  stand  the  journey  broke  for  the 
eastern  gates  with  unwonted  alacrity,  bowling  the  gate- 
keepers aside  with  coarse  jests  or  imprecations.  Some 
were  able  to  procure  canoes  and  barges  for  the  journey, 
while  others  rode  on  hurriedly  constructed  dog-rafts, 
or  raced  along  the  banks.  It  was  a  frenzied,  reckless 
crowd  that  followed  the  course  of  the  Juniata  that 
night ! 

The  next  day  was  the  first  day  of  the  New  Year, 
when  the  ceremonies  at  the  Standing  Stone  were  al- 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  225 

ways  held.  The  morning  dawned  clear  and  cool, 
without  a  cloud  in  the  sky,  but  not  a  male  Oneida  ex- 
cept the  tiny  boys  and  palsied  old  men  remained  in  the 
castle.  Many  women  came  out  of  their  houses,  as- 
sembling in  little  groups,  expressing  surprise  that  the 
time-honored  ceremony  was  not  taking  place.  But  as 
the  day  wore  on,  more  of  them  discussed  the  prospects 
of  the  buffalo  hunt  than  the  discarded  religious  exer- 
cises. 

Night  fell,  and  the  New  Year  had  been  ushered  in 
without  the  pageant,  which  after  all  no  one  missed.  A 
few  of  the  very  old  feeble  Indian  braves,  too  decrepit 
to  leave  their  cabins,  bemoaned  the  changed  order,  but 
they  were  not  worth  listening  to,  so  the  young  folks 
argued. 

At  the  hunting  ground  the  Oneidas  had  arrived  soon 
enough  to  put  the  marauders  from  the  Susquehanna  to 
rout  before  they  had  killed  many  bison.  Before  they 
began  the  big  slaughter,  they  killed  many  of  the  in- 
truding Indians  and  burned  their  bodies  in  a  heap. 
Then  they  began  the  butchery,  killing  the  buffaloes 
right  and  left.  This  slaughter  continued  until  they  had 
put  an  end  to  all  the  mature  bulls  and  cows  and  a 
goodly  proportion  of  calves.  The  rest  were  let  go  to 
carry  on  the  race  for  the  next  years'  hunt.  Then  came 
the  carnival  of  skinning,  of  drying  the  hides,  of  curing 
the  meat.  It  went  on  while  the  creek  ran  red  with  the 
drainage  from  the  gory  work. 

Weeks  passed  before  the  last  Oneida  was  back  at 
the  castle  and  took  up  the  thread  of  the  old  existence. 


226  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

The  ceremonies  at  the  Standing  Stone  were  forgotten, 
life  went  on  for  a  time  as  if  there  had  never  been  such 
a  sacred  rite.  But  there  soon  set  in  a  marked  moral 
deterioration,  life  without  religions  could  not  be  other- 
wise than  unmoral.  Justice,  truth,  honor,  became  mis- 
nomers. Disease  and  degeneracy  v/ere  everywhere 
apparent.  Pleasure  and  indolence  became  the  only 
gods.  Many  manly  pastimes  fell  into  disrepute,  even 
the  chase  was  considered  too  great  an  effort. 

It  was  on  the  first  anniversary  of  the  abandonment 
of  the  sacred  exercises  at  the  Standing  Stone  that  a 
terrible  pestilence  broke  out  among  the  Oneidas.  It 
was  a  vile  skin  disorder  like  a  leprosy,  and  no  medicine 
man  in  the  tribe  was  able  to  cope  with  it.  The  Indians, 
old  and  young,  "died  like  flies,"  yet  no  one  thought  to 
seek  divine  interference.  So  great  was  the  power  of 
caste  and  clannishness  that  none  of  the  redmen  cared 
to  bury  the  dead.  The  putrifying  corpses  lay  about  in 
the  basilica  and  alleys,  or  were  piled  against  the  stock- 
ades. Vast  flocks  of  buzzards,  ravens  and  other 
noxious  birds  feasted  off  the  remains,  the  air  resound- 
ing, especially  in  the  night  time  with  their  weird  cries. 

Among  the  handful  of  Indians  who  managed  to 
escape  the  plague  was  one  very  young  brave,  of  no 
particular  elevation  of  birth,  named  Wahoorah.  Bom 
in  an  obscure  corner  of  the  Juniata  country,  he  some- 
how or  other  held  firmly  to  the  old  ideals  and  religious 
practices  of  his  race.  He  was  able  to  witness  the 
failure  of  medicine  and  black  art  in  curing  the  awful 
scourge,  he  saw  the  danger  of  the  quick  extermination 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  227 

of  his  people,  he  reasoned  out  but  one  cure,  a  return 
to  the  ancient  landmarks.  Yet  his  counsels  were 
brushed  aside,  even  by  dying  men.  The  course  of  the 
tribe  was  forward,  through  different  channels,  the  past 
was  dead,  the  Standing  Stone  superfluous,  all  held. 
But  Wahoorah  felt  that  he  had  a  mission,  he  must  save 
his  race  at  any  cost. 

Gathermg  together  a  fragment  of  the  tribe,  mostly 
aged  men,  old  women,  young  women  and  children,  he 
persuaded  them  to  arrange  for  the  removal  of  the 
stone  to  a  new  locality  to  the  north.  Though  he  held 
no  official  position  in  the  tribe,  and  was  lacking  in  in- 
fluential friends,  there  was  no  one  who  interposed  any 
objection  to  his  proposal  to  carry  the  stone  away. 

On  the  second  anniversary  of  the  abandonment  of 
the  ancient  rites  he  appeared  before  the  stone,  accom- 
panied by  his  devoted  little  band.  Somewhere  he  had 
found  the  hammer  and  chisel  which  the  priests  of  old 
had  used  to  carve  the  records  of  the  tribe  on  the  sacred 
stone.  Watched  only  by  his  followers,  he  boldly  pro- 
ceeded to  cut  the  following  records  on  the  shaft.  First 
he  carved,  "Year  of  the  abandonment  of  the  sacred 
rites.  Result:  Pestilence,  Deterioration,  Sorrow." 
"First  anniversary  of  the  abandonment  of  rites.  Death 
rate  growing  steadily  higher."  "Second  anniversary, 
Wahoorah  and  his  followers  remove  stone  to  the 
north." 

So  absorbed  were  the  tribesmen  in  their  own  petty 
concerns  that  no  one  except  his  followers  took  the 
trouble  to  read  the  new  carvings,  which  were  in  hiero- 


228  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

glyphic  form,  the  Oneidas  having  no  written  language. 
After  the  signs  had  been  placed  on  the  stone,  Wahoo- 
rah  signaled  to  the  most  agile  of  his  disciples  to  pry  the 
stone  loose  from  its  foundations.  Crowbars  and  picks 
were  used  with  a  will,  with  the  result  that  the  huge 
shaft  was  soon  swaying  in  its  gravelly  foundations. 
Wahoorah  held  the  stone  in  place  while  his  followers 
got  ready  to  drop  it  into  a  net  basket  in  which  it  was 
to  be  dragged  overland  to  the  north.  While  so  en- 
gaged he  failed  to  notice  the  approach  of  the  titular 
chief  of  the  Oneidas,  young  He-Hu-Ti-Dan.  Aroused 
from  a  sick  bed  by  the  noise  in  the  market  place,  he 
had  dragged  his  corruption-covered  body  to  the  scene 
of  Wahoorah's  activities.  With  a  voice  cracked  and 
broken,  in  a  high  falsetto  key,  he  ordered  the  saintly 
Indian  to  let  the  sacred  stone  alone.  His  queer  voice 
shrieking  from  the  silence  so  suddenly  caused  Wahoo- 
rah to  turn  his  head.  As  he  did  so  his  hands  slipped 
and  the  Standing  Stone,  loose  at  its  foundations,  fell 
to  the  earth  with  a  crash  and  was  shattered  into  a  hun- 
dred pieces. 

This  was  too  much  for  He-Hu-Ti-Dan.  Raising 
his  staff,  he  sought  to  smite  Wahoorah  and  send  him 
reeling  among  the  wreckage.  But  the  young  warrior 
dodged  the  blow,  and  the  chieftain  plunged  forward, 
falling  in  a  heap  in  his  long  gown  like  a  bag  of  old 
bones.  There  he  lay  until  Wahoorah  turned  him  over 
on  his  back,  finding  him  dead.  Kicking  him  out  of  the 
way  as  he  would  a  mass  of  filth,  Wahoorah  ordered  his 
followers  to  gather  together  the  pieces  of  the  sacred 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  229 

stone  and  place  them  in  the  net.  Then  he  told  his  band 
that  he  was  ready  to  start  to  the  north,  to  a  new  land; 
that  all  who  wished  to  leave  behind  the  enervation  and 
sinfulness  of  the  castle  and  help  carve  out  a  new  des- 
tiny could  do  so. 

Every  member  of  his  party  old  and  young  elected 
to  go  with  him,  and  toward  the  mysterious  north  they 
wended  their  way  that  day  at  sundown.  They  had 
barely  disappeared  into  the  blackness  of  the  forest 
when  a  band  of  hardy  Tuscaroras  from  the  South  en- 
tered the  castle  gates.  They  had  heard  of  the  plight 
of  their  relatives,  had  come  to  their  assistance,  bearing 
supplies  and  accompanied  by  wise  men  and  medicine 
men.  They  were  shocked  to  find  the  Standing  Stone 
gone  and  the  town  depopulated  except  for  a  few  sick 
men.  From  a  dying  savage  they  learned  the  story  of 
the  ravages  of  the  pestilence,  of  Wahoorah's  fruitless 
efforts  to  effect  a  renaissance,  of  his  tragedy  and  de- 
parture. Despite  valiant  efforts,  the  proud  castle  of 
the  Oneidas  became  a  city  of  the  dead  in  a  few  days. 
The  medicines  and  spells  of  the  Tuscaroras  availed 
not,  for  every  Oneida  passed  away. 

The  Tuscaroras  decided  not  to  remain  in  the  fair 
valley  of  the  Juniata.  They  feared  they  might  become 
afflicted  with  the  foul  malady.  Thus  the  site  of  Stand- 
ing Stone  Town  remained  untenanted  save  for  the  tem- 
porary^ camps  of  wandering  hunters  for  two  centuries. 
At  length  a  permanent  settlement  of  Tuscaroras  was 
made  on  the  spot,  and  one  of  the  first  acts  of  these 
settlers  was  to  hew  out  a  new  Standing  Stone,  to  con- 


230  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

tain  their  sacred  records.  With  reverent  hands  it  was 
erected  on  the  site  of  the  ancient  stone,  and  for  years 
it  recorded  the  worthy  annals  of  a  noble  race.  As  if 
to  atone  for  the  remissness  of  their  relatives,  the  Tus- 
caroras  tended  this  stone  most  tenderly.  And  in  so 
doing  they  won  for  themselves  prosperity  and  happi- 
ness. And  they  m.ight  have  remained  indefinitely  at 
their  beautiful  home  had  it  not  been  for  the  news  of 
the  arrival  of  a  white-skinned  race  of  people  in  their 
neighborhood.  With  this  news  came  a  vision  to  their 
wisest  man,  old  Pa-Tek-Kwa,  that  they  must  remove 
the  stone  and  migrate  to  the  north.  In  this  vision  was 
portrayed  the  greatness  of  the  remnant  of  the  Oneidas 
who  had  long  before  followed  Wahoorah  out  of  the 
Juniata  country;  this  destiny  would  follow  the  Tusca- 
roras  on  their  northerly  pilgrimage.  Abundance  would 
be  theirs  in  the  North. 

So  carefully,  fully  as  carefully  as  they  set  it  up,  the 
chiefs  and  wise  men  took  down  the  Standing  Stone, 
and  followed  it  to  the  North.  In  order  not  to  arouse 
too  much  curiosity  from  the  white  men  the  stone  was 
taken  down  at  night,  and  the  northerly  journey  com- 
menced, unlighted  even  by  rays  of  the  moon. 

A  few  days  afterward  when  a  party  of  white  sur- 
veyors reached  the  site  of  the  town  they  were  surprised 
to  find  it  deserted,  and  strangest  of  all  to  find  the  stone, 
which  they  had  marked  as  a  "corner"  in  their  note- 
books, chief  among  the  missing.  But  they  pitched 
their  cam.ps  where  the  ancient  relic  had  stood,  and 
among  themselves  resolved  to  erect  another  stone  in  its 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  231 

place  as  a  permanent  "corner."  One  of  their  number, 
Andrew  Clugage,  was  able  to  hew  out  of  the  stiff  flint 
a  "stone"  which  seemed  the  counterpart  of  its  prede- 
cessors. And  when  it  was  being  put  in  place  some 
wandenng  Indians  appeared  on  the  scene,  Indians  of 
venerable  mien,  who  had  retentive  memories,  and  they 
retailed  the  history  of  past  Standing  Stones.  And  they 
made  the  prophecy  that  as  long  as  a  stone  stood  on 
the  spot  and  was  treated  with  respect,  prosperity  and 
happiness  would  fall  to  the  lot  of  all  who  dwelt  near 
at  hand.  For  was  not  the  first  stone  the  gift  of  the 
Gitchie-Manitto  himself? 

And  for  some  reason  there  always  has  been  a  stone 
on  view  at  Huntingdon,  the  Standing  Stone  Town  of 
romance  and  history.  There  is  one  now  in  a  small 
public  park  near  the  center  of  the  town.  Nature  has 
truly  lavished  all  her  gifts  upon  those  who  have  lived 
near  it,  prospent}',  happiness,  contentment,  and  power 
have  all  been  dealt  out  with  a  bountiful  hand,  and  the 
old  story  stretching  back  into  the  vistas  of  dim  antiquity 
has  not  been  forgotten.  The  historian,  the  poet,  the 
orator,  as  well  as  the  humble  narrator  of  legends  have 
all  faithfully  striven  to  keep  its  memory  green. 


232  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 


XVI. 
WARRIOR'S  RIDGE. 

THE  STORY  OF  TWO  MOUNTAIN  RANGES. 

MANY  have  been  the  explanations  advanced  for 
the  name  "Warrior's  Ridge,"  that  bold,  cren- 
elated range  which  bisects  the  "Blue  Juniata" 
below^  Petersburg.  All  of  the  reasons  adduced  are  more 
or  less  true,  for  it  was  the  home  of  a  warrior  race  for 
generations;  its  whole  formation  suggests  the  camp; 
the  famed  "Pulpit  Rocks"  are  like  the  battlements  of 
some  ancient  fortress.  But  the  Indian  with  whom  the 
mountain  range  was  most  intimately  connected  in  the 
early  settler  days  was  Iron  Elk,  or  He-Ha-Ka-Maza, 
a  Shawnee  of  matchless  courage,  rare  audacity,  and 
deepest  cunning.  It  was  he  who  announced  one  after- 
noon, while  standing  on  the  highest  point  of  the  ridge, 
that  no  white  settlers  or  traders  should  dare  penetrate 
further  west;  Warrior's  Ridge  would  be  the  barrier 
between  the  two  races. 

For  several  years  he  managed  to  make  good  his 
threat,  and  many  were  the  scalps  he  accumulated  while 
so.  doing.  His  reputation  for  bravery  becoming  spread 
about  by  the  savage  gossips,  it  was  not  long  before  he 
was  followed  by  a  band  of  bloodthirsty  young  Indians, 
who  emulated  not  only  his  deeds,  but  his  very  gestures 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  233 

and  tone  of  voice.  He  practiced  his  cruel  acts  so 
stealthfully,  and  in  so  many  divergent  localities  along 
the  barrier  ridge  that  the  crimes  were  not  attributed  to 
one  band  by  the  authorities  at  Philadelphia  and  Harris' 
Ferry.  A  trader  could  not  be  murdered  one  night 
near  McConnellstown  and  a  family  butchered  a  few 
hours  later  at  the  head  of  Shaver's  Creek  by  the  same 
band;  it  was  a  physical  impossibility,  declared  those 
in  control.  But  nevertheless  it  was  Iron  Elk  and  his 
cohorts  who  committed  each  and  every  foul  deed,  run- 
ning like  wolves  through  the  night  along  paths  only 
known  to  themselves,  which  connected  the  entire  range 
by  a  network  of  communication.  Many  a  murder  at- 
tributed to  other  bands  of  Indians  was  in  reality  the 
work  of  Iron  Elk  or  his  followers;  history  has  slighted 
this  notorious  redskin  as  an  arch-murderer.  How  long 
he  would  have  continued  his  wicked  course,  or  the 
awful  total  of  scalps  he  might  have  collected,  is  a  mat- 
ter of  conjecture,  had  not  a  strange  thing  happened 
to  him. 

Hardened  wretch  that  he  was,  foe  of  the  white  race 
that  he  professed  to  be,  he  fell  in  love  with  a  settler's 
daughter.  This  pioneer,  whose  name  was  Jasper 
Troxel,  had  migrated  from  the  Blue  Mountain  coun- 
try, from  the  banks  of  the  Ontelaunee,  to  try  his  for- 
tunes on  a  triangular  plot  of  ground  which  lay  between 
Muddy  Run  and  Laurel  Run,  near  their  confluence, 
in  what  is  now  Huntingdon  County.  He  was  not 
afraid  of  Indians,  and  as  proof  of  his  courage  had 
brought  his  wife  and  ten  children — nine  of  them  were 


234  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

girls — as  his  companions  in  the  wilderness.  He  was 
able  to  make  his  clearing,  build  his  house  and  plant  his 
first  crop  of  buckwheat  before  he  saw  his  first  redskin 
— and  that  one  came  on  a  friendly  errand,  at  least  so 
he  thought. 

One  evening  in  the  first  part  of  September,  after  a 
busy  day's  work,  the  pioneer  sat  with  his  family  on 
the  doorstep,  resting  and  reflecting  over  the  day's 
labors.  Such  was  their  feeling  of  security  that  the 
rifles  and  muskets  were  left  inside  of  the  house.  It  was 
a  quiet  evening,  warm  for  that  time  of  the  year,  and 
the  sun  lingered  on  the  white  trunks  of  the  girdled  yel- 
low pines  in  the  valley  seemingly  longer  than  usual. 
The  thoughts  of  the  entire  family  were  far  from  In- 
dians, consequently  great  was  their  surprise  to  see  a  tall 
redskin,  attired  in  a  scarlet  cloak  and  a  red  cap,  emerge 
from  the  forest  on  the  eastern. side  of  the  tiny  clearing. 
As  if  trying  to  prove  the  innocence  of  his  intentions,  he 
carried  no  gun,  his  long  arms  waved  idly  at  his  sides 
from  under  the  vivid-hued  cloak.  He  advanced  toward 
the  frontier  family  seated  on  their  doorstep,  a  smile 
playing  about  his  wide,  thin-lipped  mouth.  Though 
the  younger  children  had  never  beheld  an  Indian  be- 
fore, for  some  unaccountable  reason  they  were  not 
afraid,  but  open-eyed  watched  his  approach. 

Jasper  Troxel  could  not  understand  the  reason  for 
the  redman's  visit,  and  would  have  been  more  amazed 
had  he  known  that  the  stranger  was  none  other  than 
the  murderous  Iron  Elk.  Yet  less  than  twelve  hours 
before  this  same  Indian  had  approached  the  little  clear- 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  235 

mg  with  murder  in  his  heart.  With  primed  rifle  he 
had  neared  the  edge  of  the  farm  intent  on  shooting 
down  the  hardy  pioneer  as  he  toiled  in  his  field.  But 
he  had  paused  before  making  his  desire  a  reahty  upon 
seeing  the  settler's  eldest  daughter,  pretty  little  Carrie 
Troxel.  The  sight  of  this  girl  of  eighteen  had  changed 
him  in  an  instant  from  a  would-be  murderer  to  an  ar- 
dent lover,  determined  to  win  by  fair  means  rather  than 
foul. 

He  had  dismissed  his  henchmen,  retired  to  his  fa- 
vorite cave  for  meditation,  and  then  sallied  forth  in 
the  late  afternoon  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  the 
Troxel  family  after  the  manner  of  a  gentleman.  In 
order  to  explain  his  presence  he  said  that  he  had  sev- 
eral knives  which  needed  sharpening,  and  that  he  un- 
derstood there  was  a  good  grindstone  at  the  farmhouse. 
He  gave  his  name,  He-Ha-Ka-Maza,  which  conveyed 
nothing  to  the  settlers,  whereas  all  would  have  shud- 
dered had  he  announced  himself  as  Iron  Elk.  He 
spoke  Dutch  like  a  native,  and  soon  was  able  to  in- 
gratiate himself  into  the  confidences  of  the  family. 
Tall,  lithe,  with  keen  grey  eyes  that  were  larger  than 
those  of  most  Indians  and  possessed  of  a  winning  smile, 
there  was  nothing  about  him  that  suggested  the  ma- 
rauder or  murderer. 

He  sat  with  the  family  until  dark,  artfully  managing 
to  direct  most  of  his  conversation  to  the  pretty  daugh- 
ter Carrie,  who  was  self-possessed  and  much  older  in 
manner  than  many  of  her  age.  Then  he  left,  after 
promising  to  return  the  next  day  with  his  knives.     He 


236  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

made  such  an  excellent  impression  that  the  almost  in- 
evitable family  council  of  war  was  not  held  after  his 
departure;  nothing  sinister  was  suspected  of  him;  he 
was  declared  to  be  a  "friendly  Indian,"  and  an  un- 
commonly attractive  one. 

The  afternoon  following,  true  to  his  promise,  the 
strange  Indian  returned  with  his  packet  of  knives. 
Carrie  was  so  little  afraid  of  him  that  he  contrived  to 
have  her  turn  the  grindstone,  for  in  a  family  where 
there  were  so  many  girls,  all  were  used  to  various  kinds 
of  work.  And  as  he  polished  off  the  blades  of  his 
knives,  knives  that  had  reeked  in  human  blood,  he  all 
the  while  smiled  down  at  the  pretty  little  pioneer  girl 
with  her  big  blue  eyes,  her  fine  aquiline  nose,  her  plump 
face  framed  with  wavy  ash-brown  hair,  her  graceful 
and  winsome  figure.  Unconsciously  the  girl  felt  an 
attraction  for  the  big  savage,  such  as  she  had  never 
known  for  any  man  before.  In  fact  in  her  isolated  life 
she  had  previously  only  known  one  man  whom  she 
cared  to  meet  a  second  time.  This  man  was  Jimmy 
MacGiffert,  a  young  Scotch-Irish  boy  with  grey  eyes 
and  a  shock  of  stiff  red  hair,  who  lived  at  the  foot  of 
the  mountains  east  of  McAlevy's  Fort,  and  who  occa- 
sionally visited  the  Troxel  clearing.  But  he  was  a  shy 
lad,  had  never  made  decided  advances,  or  showed  that 
he  preferred  her  to  her  sisters;  he  was  merely  a  pass- 
ing admirer,  she  thought.  But  the  Indian  in  fluent 
Pennsylvania  Dutch  complimented  her,  a  thing  that 
had  never  been  done  to  her  before,  as  in  the  stern  life 
on  the  frontier  no  time  was  wasted  in  any  household 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  237 

on  "soft  speeches."  She  had  heard  herself  called 
pretty  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  and  it  sounded  good 
to  her  empty  soul.  Intensely  grateful  was  she  to  the 
Indian  for  making  her  feel  that  she  was  of  some  con- 
sequence, that  apart  from  her  ability  to  perform  her 
share  of  the  family  tasks,  some  one  cared  for  her.  She 
liked  the  redman  immensely  by  the  time  the  last  knife 
was  sharpened.  And  with  the  sharpening  of  that  last 
knife  Iron  Elk  felt  that  he  had  ground  away  all  traces 
of  his  sanguinary  past.  He  might  have  murdered  all 
the  Troxels  except  Carrie,  and  carried  her  off  into  the 
forest;  it  would  have  been  easy,  yet  somehow  the  sight 
of  her  had  aroused  emotions  so  different  that  he  scarcely 
recognized  his  old  self.  After  promising  to  return  with 
some  beaver  and  otter  hides  as  payment  for  the  favor 
accorded,  the  big  Indian  took  his  leave,  regretted  by  all 
the  family,  who  at  supper  unanimously  resolved  here- 
after not  to  believe  all  the  bad  they  heard  of  the  sav- 
ages. 

The  next  evening  at  sundown  Iron  Elk  was  back 
again  with  a  big  pack  of  hides,  which  he  threw  down 
on  the  doorstep  unconcernedly,  and  chatted  with  all 
the  family  until  dark,  when  he  took  his  departure. 
After  that  he  visited  the  i  roxel  family  every  few  days. 
He  became  on  easy  footing  with  them  all,  was  allowed 
to  talk  freely  with  Carrie,  and  even  to  take  little  walks 
with  her  to  the  spring,  which  was  in  the  forest  just 
beyond  the  edge  of  the  clearing. 

On  one  occasion  Jimmy  MacGiffert  stopped  at  the 
Troxel  home  for  dinner.     Shy  as  he  was,  he  had  al- 


238  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

ways  tried  to  talk  with  Carrie,  but  on  this  day  she 
seemed  more  distant  than  ever.  Before  he  left  he  tried 
to  recall  to  her  an  incident  when  she  had  met  him  at 
the  spring,  one  day  the  year  before,  and  had  punched 
the  first  syllable  of  his  last  name  "Mac"  with  a  sharp 
stick  in  a  big  paw-paw  leaf,  and  had  thrown  it  in  the 
spring  to  float  about  like  a  little  boat — the  craft  that 
bore  his  happiness.  But  she  seemed  to  forget  about 
this  early  act  of  sentiment  and  he  went  away  heavy 
hearted.  Yet  after  he  was  gone,  her  love  nature 
awakened  by  Iron  Elk,  Carrie  felt  secretly  elated 
that  she  possessed  a  second  lover.  She  now  knew 
that  men  cared  for  her,  which  made  life  well  worth 
living. 

Gradually  the  Indian  lover  became  more  personal 
in  his  conversation.  He  was  unfolding  the  story  of 
his  love  until  he  might  come  to  the  page  which  revealed 
his  hope  to  have  her  all  his  own  One  evening  when 
she  had  accompanied  him  as  far  as  the  spring,  where 
she  was  to  get  a  bucket  of  water,  the  redman  gently 
enfolded  her  in  his  arms,  and  with  a  voice  choked  with 
emotion  told  her  the  whole  story  in  more  or  less  co- 
herent Shawnee  and  Dutch.  Carrie  leaned  her  frow- 
selled  tawny  head  against  his  capacious  breast,  affirm- 
ing his  love,  yet  fearful  of  the  consequences.  She  was 
anxious  to  marry  him,  yet  dreaded  to  break  the  news 
to  her  parents,  who  always  regarded  the  Indian  as  a 
"family  friend."  As  a  possible  son-in-law  he  might 
not  be  so  acceptable.  She  was  so  slow  in  answering 
that  Iron  Elk  divined  her  reticence. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  239 

"Come  with  me  now,  to-night,  then  there  will  be  no 
explanations  to  make,  no  time  lost." 

In  answer  Carrie  pressed  her  soft  face  close  against 
his  breast.  In  another  instant  they  were  wending  their 
way  together  along  the  path  which  led  m  the  direction 
of  the  eastern  mountains. 

When,  half  an  hour  later,  Carrie's  absence  was  com- 
mented upon,  Jasper  Troxel  was  equally  decisive. 
Bringing  forth  his  brace  of  bear  dogs,  he  strapped  them 
together,  and  holding  them  on  leash,  proceeded  to  fol- 
low them  into  the  wilderness.  His  only  son,  a  boy  of 
ten  years  of  age,  bearing  a  torch  of  rich  pine,  followed 
the  procession. 

As  he  parted  from  his  wife  at  the  spring  he  mut- 
tered, "It  was  a  foolish  thing  to  let  that  Indian  have  the 
run  of  this  place,  but  mark  my  word,  I'll  have  Carrie 
back  or  Iron  Elk's  scalp  on  my  belt  by  morning." 

He  presented  a  formidable  appearance  as,  carrying 
his  rifle  in  his  left  hand  and  with  the  dogs  dragging 
him  by  the  leash  in  the  right,  he  disappeared  into  the 
gloom.  All  night  long  he  followed  the  trail,  sometimes 
seemingly  coming  very  close  to  the  runaways.  At  such 
times  his  hopes  ran  very  high.  In  the  morning  he  ar- 
rived at  the  Juniata — it  was  much  swollen  by  the  fall 
rains — near  where  the  city  of  Lewistown  now  stands. 
There  the  dogs  lost  the  scent  at  an  old  Indian  landing. 
It  was  clear  to  the  distracted  father  that  the  girl  had 
boarded  or  been  placed  in  a  canoe,  and  taken  away. 
There  was  nothing  left  but  to  turn  homewards,  a  sadly 
disillusioned  man. 


240  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

While  wandering  along  disconsolately  whom  should 
he  meet  but  Carrie's  silent  admirer,  Jimmy  MacGiffert. 
Of  course  the  heartsick  pioneer  unfolded  his  story  to 
him.  Did  the  girl  go  willingly  or  unwillingly?  Mac- 
Giffert, his  anger  and  jealousy  aroused,  was  instantly 
sympathetic.  Leaning  his  rifle  against  a  tree,  he  an- 
nounced that  he  was  ready  to  hunt  down  the  villainous 
Indian,  and  rescue  the  girl.  As  a  hint  for  his  speedy 
departure,  Jasper  Troxel  told  of  how  suddenly  the  girl 
had  vanished. 

"I  am  ready  to  go  now,"  said  MacGiffert,  shoulder- 
ing his  rifle  again.  "I  was  starting  for  the  East  on  a 
moose  hunt,  but  I  much  prefer  trailing  a  low-blooded 
redskin." 

A.S  the  young  man  knew  the  ways  and  the  haunts 
of  the  Indians,  and  was  animated  by  malice  and  un- 
requited love,  he  was  just  the  person  to  start  on  the 
man  hunt. 

"She  will  come  back  as  my  wife,"  said  the  youth 
with  a  grim  smile.  "I  don't  think  you  would  object 
to  me  as  son-in-law." 

"Not  in  the  least.  You  are  just  the  man  for  her," 
replied  Troxel.  "I  did  not  want  the  girl  to  marry  for 
a  year  or  two,  until  I  got  my  plantation  cleared,  but 
since  she  seems  determined  to  marry  some  one,  she 
could  not  choose  a  better  man  than  you." 

Jasper  Troxel  had  had  many  hard  knocks  in  his 
day;  he  knew  how  to  accept  fate  unflinchingly.  He 
returned  to  his  home  without  complaint  and  took  up  his 
daily  tasks  as  if  nothing  had  happened.     His  wife  was 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  241 

of  the  same  heroic  mould;  she  accepted  matters  with- 
out question.  The  children  were  too  busy  to  discuss 
their  sister's  adventure. 

After  MacGiffert  said  good-bye  to  Troxel  and  his 
boy,  he  ruminated  further  a  while  before  starting  on 
his  hunt.  He  figured  out  that  if  the  Indian  had  taken 
the  girl  eastward  in  his  canoe,  he  would  probably  con- 
tinue the  journey  until  they  reached  one  of  the  Indian 
paths  which  led  toward  the  Mahantango,  Berries, 
Peter's  or  the  Kittochtinny  Mountains. 

TTie  young  man  went  to  the  old  landing  at  the  mouth 
of  Jack's  Creek,  where  he  found  a  fairly  good  canoe 
hidden  in  a  tangle  of  red  birches  and  willows.  A  few 
repairs  made  it  seaworthy,  and  in  it  he  started  on  his 
pilgrimage.  He  eagerly  scanned  the  shores  for  Indians 
who  might  be  induced  to  give  him  information,  but  not 
seeing  any  he  continued  his  way  until  he  reached  the 
mouth  of  Crane's  Run,  near  the  present  borough  of 
Millerstown.  There  he  debarked,  as  he  knew  that  the 
Indian  path  to  Broad  Mountain  led  from  there  east- 
ward through  Pfoutz's  Valley.  But  as  he  found  no 
canoes  beached  or  no  Indians  to  question,  he  launched 
his  boat  again  and  held  his  course  until  he  came  to  the 
mouth  of  the  Juniata.  At  Duncan's  and  at  Halde- 
man's  islands  he  met  several  Indians,  but  they  declared 
that  no  boats  had  come  ashore  there  for  several  weeks. 

Taking  the  chance  that  Iron  Elk  and  his  misguided 
companion  had  passed  into  the  Susquehanna  after 
nightfall,  MacGiffert  embarked  once  more,  floating 
along  until  he  reached  the  mouth  of  Stony  Creek.     At 


242  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

that  spot  there  was  a  considerable  Indian  encamp- 
ment, a  mixed  lot  of  redskins,  Shawnees,  Conestogas, 
Pequots,  as  well  as  some  half-breeds.  The  Indians 
had  been  drinking,  and  were  in  a  communicative  mood. 
The  young  pioneer  asked  them  if  a  canoe  containing 
an  Indian  and  a  white  girl  had  been  seen  in  that  vicin- 
ity, and  if  so  did  they  think  that  the  girl  was  a  captive 
or  accompanied  him  willingly.  The  Indians  laughed 
when  questioned.  Yes,  they  had  seen  such  a  pair,  the 
Indian  was  none  other  than  He-Ha-Ka-Maza  or  Iron 
Elk,  the  terrible  slayer  of  white  men.  The  white  girl 
was  fair,  very  pretty,  and  seemed  happy  to  be  with 
the  hideous  painted  savage.  The  couple  had  hidden 
their  canoe  in  the  bushes,  and  started  along  the  path 
which  led  up  Stony  Creek.  Out  in  the  Blue  Moun- 
tains were  ample  fastnesses;  it  was  an  ideal  country  in 
which  to  elude  pursuers. 

MacGiflfert  on  hearing  this  unpleasant  information 
did  not  hesitate  long  about  what  to  do  next.  Unac- 
companied, he  boldly  struck  out  along  the  path  taken 
by  the  elopers.  But  it  was  like  hunting  for  a  "shilling 
in  a  labyrinth" — the  forests  were  vast,  the  mountains 
high,  the  gloom  impenetrable,  the  paths  half  hidden 
and  tortuous.  Occasionally  the  young  man  met  red- 
skins who  directed  him  to  the  haunts  most  favored  by 
their  race.  But  he  never  came  across  any  in  all  the 
weary  weeks  and  months  he  searched  who  had  seen 
the  Indian  and  his  love.  But  MacGiffert  did  not  come 
from  a  race  of  quitters;  he  would  find  the  girl  and  kill 
Iron  Elk  if  it  took  ten  years. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  243 

Autumn  blended  into  winter,  and  the  snow  blocked 
up  the  deep  ravines  and  canyons  of  the  Blue  Moun- 
tains. Living  as  best  he  could  by  hunting  and  trap- 
ping, and  stopping  now  and  then  with  friendly  Indians, 
or  occupying  his  improvised  hut  in  McGilligan's 
Rocks,  the  dreary  winter  passed,  and  at  length  spring 
intervened.  But  even  with  the  advent  of  blue  sky, 
warm  breezes,  pussy-willows,  spice  bushes,  and  Blue 
Mountain  violets,  the  songs  of  birds,  came  no  tidings 
of  the  lost  Carrie  Troxel.  It  was  not  until  the  bright, 
breezy  month  of  June  that  the  quest  gave  signs  of 
ending. 

One  day  at  noon,  weary  and  well  nigh  disheartened, 
MacGiffert  was  resting  by  the  side  of  Windsor  Brook, 
a  beautiful  rushing  stream  which  flows  fresh  and  turbu- 
lent, as  cold  as  ice,  from  the  very  heart  of  the  Pin- 
nacle, with  its  thousand  caves,  and  the  highest  peak  of 
the  Kittochtinny  range  for  many  miles  around.  As  he 
sat  there  watching  the  speckled  trout  jumping,  the 
dancing  of  yellow  butterflies,  the  leisurely  flight  of  the 
"red  hackles"  and  the  "water  crickets"  skipping  over 
the  bubbling  surface,  he  noticed  a  broad  pawpaw  leaf 
swirling  along  with  the  current.  Instantly  old 
memories  were  revived,  and  almost  before  he  real- 
ized it,  he  was  reaching  out  and  grasping  at  it  as  it 
swept  along.  Seizing  the  dripping  and  icy  leaf,  he 
laid  it  in  the  palm  of  his  hand.  There  he  saw  some- 
thing which  made  him  wild  with  surprise  and  emotion. 
Pricked  on  the  flat  surface  of  the  leaf,  as  if  with  a 
sharpened  stick  was  the  word  "Mac,"  Carrie  Troxel's 


244  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

old  pet  name  for  him.  Quick  as  a  flash  he  read  a 
meaning  from  it.  The  girl,  if  not  a  captive,  was  un- 
happy and  had  launched  the  leaf  on  the  chance  that 
he  might  find  it.  Or  she  might  have  heard  through 
some  of  his  Indian  friends  that  he  was  hunting  for  her. 
He  knew  that  the  stream  extended  up  the  gorge  but  a 
mile  or  two  further — Carrie,  whom  he  loved,  was  near 
him,  and  he  would  rescue  her  before  the  sun  went 
down. 

Priming  his  rifle,  and  adjusting  his  long  knife,  he 
began  his  march  up  the  bank  of  the  brook.  It  was  a 
wild  jungle  of  rhododendrons,  fallen  trees,  vines  and 
briars;  it  was  hard  to  proceed  quietly,  but  at  length 
he  came  to  a  small  opening  near  where  the  torrent 
gushed  out  from  the  vast  mountain's  mighty  heart.  In 
the  far  corner,  in  the  dense  shade  lay  the  long  lean 
form  of  the  hated  Iron  Elk,  fast  asleep.  MacGiffert's 
decision  was  instantly  made.  Raising  his  rifle  butt 
foremost  he  charged  the  prostrate  savage.  Bringing 
down  the  heavy  butt  with  a  thud  on  the  redman's 
skull,  he  sent  him  from  dreamland  into  unconscious- 
ness. Hastily  looking  around  lest  Carrie  intercept  him, 
he  resolved  to  quickly  finish  his  cruel  design. 

Dragging  the  senseless  body,  the  arms  and  legs  of 
which  he  securely  tied,  to  the  creekside,  he  leaped  in 
the  torrent,  and  using  his  ramrod  as  a  crowbar  he 
began  digging  a  deep  pit.  Goaded  to  superhuman 
energy  by  hate  and  rage,  he  soon  had  the  hole  as 
deep  as  the  height  of  a  human  body.  Then  he 
picked    up    the    wobbling    form   of    th^    Indian    and 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  245 

stood  it  up  to  its  neck  in  the  pit.  Close  around 
it  he  packed  the  stones  and  gravel,  until  the  In- 
dian was  wedged  solidly  into  the  bed  of  the  stream. 

Then,  perhaps  it  was  the  cool  force  of  the  water 
that  facilitated  it,  the  huge  Indian  recovered  con- 
sciousness. Looking  around  him  he  beheld  his  foe; 
he  realized  his  fate,  and  his  helplessness,  and  he 
shrieked  piteously  for  mercy. 

But  MacGiffert  only  laughed  until  his  sides  shook 
as  he  watched  the  horrid  wretch's  antics.  The  In- 
dian's cries  brought  Carrie  to  the  scene;  she  had  been 
gathering  berries  in  the  woods,  but  she  exhibited  no 
compassion  when  she  saw  her  whilom  lover's  fate. 
Running  to  where  MacGiffert  stood,  she  threw  her 
arms  about  his  waist. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  happy  to  see  you,"  she  cried,  "I  knew 
that  the  paw-paw  leaf  would  reach  you  and  bring  you 
to  me.  I  felt  that  you  were  looking  for  me.  I  went 
away  with  the  Indian  willingly,  but  h^  was  so  mean 
and  so  cruel  that  I  would  have  wished  myself  dead 
had  I  not  always  cherished  the  thought  of  meeting  you 
again." 

The  Indian  meanwhile  kept  yelling  until  his  voice 
cracked,  his  facial  struggles  being  terrible  to  behold, 
but  he  was  trapped  in  the  bed  of  the  brook,  to  remain 
there  until  death  released  his  wicked  spirit.  Calmly 
the  couple  turned  their  backs  on  the  captive  and  com- 
menced a  journey  which  would  bring  them  back  to 
the  Juniata  country,  there  to  marry  and  "live  happy 
ever  afterwards." 


246  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

And  to  this  day,  near  where  the  Windsor  Brook 
bursts  from  the  heart  of  the  lofty  Pinnacle,  Iron  Elk's 
body  still  stands  deep  imbedded  in  the  torrent's  bed. 
Moss,  green,  shaggy  moss,  has  taken  the  place  of  the 
raven  locks,  green,  slimy  mould  covers  the  forehead 
and  the  eyes,  but  the  skull  is  still  intact,  the  once  proud 
face,  mingled  with  the  pebbles  and  ooze,  is  easily 
discernible.  And  there  he  must  rest,  paying  the  eternal 
penalty  for  his  selfish  passion,  while  far  away  in  the 
Juniata  country  the  descendants  of  Carrie  Troxel  and 
Jim  MacGiffert  are  happy  and  prosperous,  typifying 
the  old  saying  that  "All's  well  that  ends  well." 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  247 


XVII. 
WARRIOR'S  MARK. 

A  LOVE  STORY  FROM  INDIAN  DAYS. 

LIKE  Warrior's  Ridge,  the  name  "Warrior's 
Mark"  has  had  many  meanings  ascribed  to  it. 
Geographically  speaking,  it  is  a  flat  piece  of 
table  land,  well  drained  and  fruitful,  an  ideal  gather- 
ing place  for  savages  in  the  olden  days.  The  historian, 
Jones,  states  that  the  name  originated  from  the  fact  of 
certain  oak  trees  in  the  vicinity  having  crescents  or  half 
moons  cut  upon  them  with  hatchets,  so  deep  that  traces 
remained  until  recent  years.  The  significance  of  them 
was  known  to  the  Indians  alone;  but  it  is  evident  that 
they  were  of  importance,  for,  during  the  Revolution- 
ary War,  every  time  a  band  of  Indians  came  into  the 
valley,  one  or  more  fresh  "warrior  marks"  were  put 
upon  the  trees.  The  Indian  path  leading  from  Kittan- 
ning,  through  the  valley  of  the  Karoondinha,  to  the 
Susquehanna  ran  across  this  table  land,  and  up  to  the 
breaking  out  of  the  Revolution  a  good-sized  Indian 
village  occupied  the  site. 

Captain  Logan,  that  noted  redman  for  whom  Logan 
Run  in  Huntingdon  County  and  Logan  Valley  in 
Blair  County  are  named,  and  one  of  the  last  Indians 
to  leave  the  Juniata  Valley,  when  asked  concerning 


248  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

the  true  meaning  of  the  "warrior  marks"  evaded  the 
general  question,  but  stated  that  he  knew  of  some 
marks  made  by  an  Indian  lover  at  the  time  of  the 
great  war  between  the  Susquehannocks  and  Lenni 
Lenape  about  1635,  which  led  to  serious  troubles,  at 
least  for  that  particular  redskin. 

It  appeared  that  for  several  years  before  the  un- 
successful invasion  of  the  Spruce  Creek  Valley  by  the 
Lenni  Lenape,  a  well-defined  system  of  scouting  and 
spying  was  carried  on  by  the  Indians  living  north  of 
the  Tussey  Mountains.  The  invasion  was  looked  for 
during  several  years  before  it  actually  took  place,  con- 
sequently the  Susquehannocks  were  enabled  to  under- 
stand the  exact  strength  of  their  foes  and  crush  them  at 
the  Battle  of  the  Indian  Steps  near  the  famous  Rock 
Springs  not  far  from  the  present  village  of  Baile5rville, 
in  Centre  County.  This  battle,  the  greatest  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  Indians  of  Pennsylvania,  left  the  various 
tribes  in  the  position  they  were  found  by  William 
Penn. 

Captain  Logan  could  describe  the  battle  to  the 
smallest  detail,  and  it  is  a  pity  that  he  did  not  fall  in 
with  some  historian  during  his  lifetime,  who  could  have 
transferred  it  to  manuscript  form.  As  it  is,  after  pass- 
ing orally  through  several  generations,  it  has  lost  much 
of  its  directness  and  historical  accuracy.  But  it  is  per- 
petuated in  stirring  verse  by  Central  Pennsylvania's 
bard,  John  H.  Chatham. 

Among  the  spies  employed  by  the  Northern  Indians 
was  a  certain  young  brave  named  Keneshaw.      He 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  249 

came  from  that  picturesque  region  now  known  as 
Brush  Valley,  not  far  from  Penn's  Cave.  He  was  a 
handsome,  vigorous  fellow,  keen  and  alert,  and  his  re- 
ports on  the  status  of  the  presumed  foemen  was  much 
prized  even  by  the  mighty  war-lord  of  the  Susquehan- 
nocks,  Pipsisseway.  He  was  said  to  be  so  cunning 
that  no  one  in  the  hostile  territory  was  aware  of  his 
repeated  visits,  which  was  considered  remarkable,  even 
in  a  forested  country. 

But  he  had  his  vulnerable  point,  for  he  was  only 
human,  and  like  most  men  it  was  his  heart  that  led 
him  to  indiscretion.  For  one  morning  in  crossing  the 
table  land  of  the  warrior's  marks  he  saw  a  beautiful 
Indian  maiden.  It  was  a  bright  day  in  February,  the 
month  of  flying  clouds,  and  he  was  homeward  bound 
after  securing  some  particularly  valuable  information 
as  to  the  fighting  strength  of  the  Lenni  Lenape.  The 
air  was  invigorating,  yet  in  the  windwalls  where  the 
sun  shone  down  there  was  a  comforting  warmth  to  the 
atmosphere.  Keneshaw  was  feeling  keenly  alive  and 
happy,  the  ideal  mood  in  which  to  be  when  overtaken 
by  the  god  of  love.  His  alert  senses  told  him  that 
some  one  was  coming  toward  him  on  the  path,  so  he 
adroitly  stepped  behind  a  giant  beech  to  wait  until  the 
danger  passed.  To  his  surprise  it  was  not  a  proud 
young  brave,  or  a  suspicious  old  chief,  but  a  very  beau- 
tiful young  maid. 

Overcome  by  an  impulse  he  could  not  resist,  the 
hardened  spy  and  wily  diplomat  stepped  out  from  be- 
hind the  tree  and  confronted  the  girl  in  the  path.     He 


250  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

had  a  winning  smile,  and  he  knew  the  Indian  world 
and  its  ways,  for  it  was  a  world  strangely  like  ours, 
and  the  result  produced  was  the  same. 

Alletah,  the  Lenni  Lenape  maid,  smiled  in  return 
and  felt  no  fear.  The  handsome  couple  became 
speedily  well  acquainted,  so  much  so  that  the  scout  was 
not  afraid  to  tell  the  girl  all  about  himself.  Between 
lovers  there  is  always  self-revelation,  even  when  the 
confession  is  perilous. 

But  Alletah,  her  affections  struck  into  flame  by  the 
suddenness  of  the  meeting,  was  to  be  trusted,  besides 
she  had  no  personal  grudge  against  the  redmen  of  the 
north.  But  she  frankly  admitted  the  danger  of  ever 
being  seen  with  this  strange  youth.  It  would  mean 
death  at  the  stake  for  her  and  an  even  more  terrible 
end  for  Keneshaw  if  he  was  caught.  And  as  their 
great  love  had  been  born  under  the  spreading  branches 
of  the  giant  beeech,  its  dry  leaves  palpitating  in  the 
February  breeze,  they  would  meet  there,  and  there 
alone.  It  was  a  secluded  spot,  and  could  be  ap- 
proached by  night,  and  gradually  their  plans  for  the 
future  could  be  worked  out  under  it. 

The  plan  would  be  that  when  Keneshaw  came  into 
that  region  on  his  next  spying  trip  he  would  carve  a 
half  moon  very  close  to  the  roots  of  the  tree,  and  Alle- 
tah when  she  found  it  would  steal  from  her  parents' 
lodge  house  at  midnight  and  meet  her  lover  at  the 
sacred  spot.  She  would  manage  to  pass  the  tree  every 
day,  but  if  she  should  happen  to  miss  it  by  bad 
weather  or  absence  with  her  parents  on  hunting  or  fish- 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  251 

ing  trips,  Keneshaw  would  await  her  at  the  tree  for 
several  consecutive  nights,  unti  she  appeared.  Then, 
when  they  parted,  they  would  carve  away  the  half 
moon,  so  there  could  be  no  errors  until  the  next  time. 
The  horned  moon  or  Astarte  was  an  Indian  symbol  of 
love  or  passion,  therefore  the  most  appropriate  of  war- 
rior's marks! 

When  they  parted  Keneshaw  threw  his  great  arms 
about  the  beautiful  Alletah  and  held  her  face  so  that 
he  could  look  down  into  it,  and  carry  away  a  lasting 
image,  a  likeness  burned  into  his  heart  of  hearts.  And 
Alletah  was  a  very  beautiful  maiden.  She  was  not 
very  tall,  but  was  of  plump  and  shapely  build,  and 
with,  oh,  such  an  exquisite  face.  By  far  the  best  fea- 
ture of  all  was  the  eyes,  the  color  of  fairy  stones,  a 
peculiar  changeable  hue.  By  the  campfire's  ruddy 
glow  they  shone  blue,  but  by  daylight,  under  the  flying 
clouds  of  February,  they  were  brown,  with  lights  of 
red  and  agate.  By  night  her  hair  was  golden,  yet  by 
day  it  seemed  black,  as  befitting  one  of  her  race.  But 
the  waxy  pallor  of  her  face,  the  parchment  pink  of 
her  thin  lips  was  always  the  same.  Her  nose  long  and 
straight  showed  her  descent  from  a  line  of  warriors 
who  were  not  afraid  of  death. 

After  many  embraces,  coupled  with  vows  and  pro- 
testations, Keneshaw  turned  from  his  new-found  love 
and  hurried  on  his  way.  He  longed  to  look  back,  but 
it  meant  disaster  to  every  Indian  who  refused  to  accept 
"good-bye" — God  be  with  you  until  we  meet  again — 
as  final.     But  the  impression  made  was  a  deep  one. 


252  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

especially  as  Keneshaw  had  never  been  in  love  before. 
Much  as  he  adored  his  w^ork  as  scout,  he  loved  the 
fair  Alletah  more.  And  he  managed  to  revisit  the  val- 
leys about  Warrior's  Run  more  frequently  than  other 
parts  of  the  territory  of  the  Southern  Indians,  so  that 
he  could  be  near  to  w^here  she  resided.  But  the 
meeting  of  the  lovers  was  alw^ays  at  the  same  place, 
under  the  giant  beech  on  the  table  land.  From  Feb- 
ruary until  September  the  romance  continued  unabated 
every  moon.  The  last  time  that  the  pair  w^ere  together 
they  were  particularly  happy  in  each  other's  company. 
A  definite  hope  for  a  speedy  union  was  at  hand. 

The  Lenni  Lenape  had  decided  to  cross  the  Indian 
Steps  and  invade  the  country  of  the  Susquehannocks, 
and  in  the  confusion  of  a  bloody  war,  Alletah  would 
slip  across  the  m.ountains  and  become  the  wife  of  her 
warrior  lover.  Then  he  would  establish  her  in  some 
secluded  valley  in  the  north  until  peace  was  restored 
and  her  family  would  forget  that  she  ever  lived.  As 
this  might  sound  heartless  to  modern  readers,  it  would 
be  well  to  state  that  there  were  no  reconciliations 
among  the  Lenni  Lenape,  a  daughter  who  married  a 
foe  was  dead  to  them  for  all  time. 

It  was  a  beautiful  cloudless  afternoon  when  the 
lovers  parted.  There  was  already  a  lavender  tint  to  the 
leaves  of  the  ancient  beech.  Among  the  dry  grass  a 
few  belated  stalks  of  boneset,  ironweed  and  Joe  Pye 
weed  bloomed  triumphantly.  The  tops  of  the  golden 
rods  were  grey,  faded  blonde  beauties.  The  blue 
birds  twittered  as  they  flew  about  in  companies,  pre- 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  253 

paring  for  their  migration.  As  Nature  is  loveliest  at 
time  of  change,  so  it  is  said,  seems  a  woman  more 
beautiful  at  parting.  Keneshaw  was  loath  to  go,  and 
he  clasped  and  unclasped  his  arms  about  the  fair  Alle- 
tah,  as  if  filled  with  some  presentiment  that  it  would 
be  for  the  last  time.  Why  is  it  that  cruel  fate  is  made 
easier  for  us  by  such  portends,  and  happier  are  those 
who  are  sensible  enough  to  heed  them.  Yet  his  last 
words  to  Alletah  were  that  he  would  be  back  the  next 
moon.     He  did  not  look  back  as  he  hurried  away. 

When  he  reached  the  headquarters  of  his  king  on 
the  banks  of  the  West  Branch  of  the  Susquehanna, 
at  the  royal  village  of  Tschimingy,  he  was  made  ac- 
quainted with  a  strange  looking  being,  a  pale-faced 
man,  a  native  of  France  called  Stephen  Brule,  who 
had  in  1615  been  the  first  white  man  to  visit  Pennsyl- 
vania. At  that  time  he  had  come  to  induce  the  Sus- 
quehannocks  to  join  the  Hurons  of  Canada  in  making 
war  on  the  Five  Nations,  which  then  occupied  the 
"lake  region"  in  central  New  York  State.  On  this 
later  occasion  he  had  come  on  a  friendly  visit,  but  the 
mighty  Pipsisseway  had  arranged  that  his  favorite 
scout  Keneshaw,  upon  his  return  from  the  South, 
should  act  as  his  escort  through  Northern  Pennsyl- 
vania and  New  York,  and  see  him  safely  into  friendly 
territory  in  Canada.  For  no  Indian  living  knew  the 
forest  paths  like  Keneshaw,  and  he  was  only  a  young 
man,  so  it  must  be  inferred  that  the  secrets  of  the  for- 
ests were  his  special  talent,  his  bom  aptitude. 

It  would  be  a  long  journey,  however,  and  his  smile 


254  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

left  his  lips,  when  the  orders  were  given  to  him.  Many 
moons  must  pass  before  he  would  again  cross  the  Tus- 
sey  Mountains  to  his  love.  But  he  loved  his  king,  and 
it  was  a  signal  honor  to  be  selected  as  guide  to  the 
white-faced  stranger.  Stephen  Brule  was  popular  with 
the  Susquehannocks.  He  was  a  man  of  genial  na- 
ture and  prepossessing  appearance.  He  is  described 
as  being  of  medium  height,  with  reddish  brown  hair,  a 
full  beard,  large  blue  eyes,  and  an  aquiline  nose;  he 
was  the  true  type  of  the  adventurer  or  argonaut. 

The  next  morning  saw  Keneshaw  and  Brule  em- 
barking on  the  West  Branch  in  a  canoe  to  begin  their 
journey  to  the  north  by  way  of  the  North  Fork  of 
Sinnemahoning.  A  large  assemblage  was  on  the 
shores  to  wave  "good-bye."  Pipsisseway  himself 
helped  to  launch  the  canoe  in  the  sparkling  waters. 
There  were  many  who  envied  Keneshaw,  and  he 
wished  they  could  read  his  heart  and  be  satisfied  with 
their  lot. 

As  soon  as  the  boat  was  out  of  sight  up  the  river  the 
king  decreed  the  appointment  of  a  new  scout  to  tem- 
porarily visit  the  southern  valleys.  Some  of  the  old 
warriors  advised  a  young  brave  named  Ko-She-Se- 
Glo,  and  he  was  accordingly  selected  for  the  post. 
Two  months  elapsed  before  he  reached  the  vicinity  of 
the  giant  beech  tree.  All  this  time  Alletah  had  been 
on  the  alert  watching  for  her  lover's  return,  conse- 
quently she  was  quick  to  intercept  the  stranger  wear- 
ing the  headgear  of  the  Susquehannocks,  whom  she 
noticed  one  morning  leaning  against  the  old  tree. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  255 

Ko-She-Se-GIo  was  not  handsome.  He  was  the 
possessor  of  evil  thoughts,  which,  according  to  the  In- 
dians, accounted  for  his  ugHness.  But  he  admired  the 
opposite  sex  with  all  the  ardor  of  an  Adonis.  Alletah 
approached  him  boldly,  and  asked  him  if  he  was  ac- 
quainted with  Keneshaw,  a  member  of  the  same 
tribe.  The  new  scout  looked  at  the  fair  girl  closely 
with  his  beady  little  black  eyes,  and  thought  that  he 
understood  the  situation.  Fie  divined  that  the  girl 
loved  his  predecessor,  and  would  not  favor  any  other 
Indian  unless  she  felt  that  her  lover  had  abandoned 
her.  To  have  a  love  affair  sub  rosa  with  such  a  beau- 
tiful girl  while  attending  to  his  offical  duties  in  the 
neighborhood  was  worth  a  lie  at  least.  So  when  she 
asked  him  again  about  Keneshaw,  he  burst  out  into  a 
coarse  laugh. 

"Keneshaw,"  he  bellowed,  "you  know  Keneshaw? 
Why  he  must  have  had  a  girl  in  every  valley.  But 
now  he's  married  to  a  lovely  wife,  and  will  never  come 
into  these  parts  again." 

Alletah's  pale  face  flushed,  and  she  bit  her  parch- 
ment-like lips  to  redness.  It  was  hard  to  believe  that 
she  had  been  deceived,  made  a  cat's-paw  of,  but  it  must 
be  true  since  her  lover  had  ceased  coming.  She 
questioned  the  stranger  further  on  the  subject.  Kene- 
shaw had  been  married  some  months,  he  said,  but  the 
bride  had  only  lately  heard  of  his  love  affairs  when 
he  was  on  his  various  trips  and  had  induced  him  to 
take  a  post  nearer  home. 

Deceived,  deserted,  loved  by  a  married  man,  these 


256  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

were  terrible  things  for  Alletah  to  hear.  Her  savage 
blood  turned  her  love  to  hate.  She  resolved  then  and 
there  to  have  revenge  somehow,  yet  she  did  not  en- 
courage the  stranger,  as  she  knew  him  to  be  an  Indian 
with  evil  thoughts.  She  parted  from  the  visitor  civilly, 
thanking  him  for  his  information,  but  after  that  she 
managed  never  to  meet  him  again.  All  through  the 
long  winter  she  pined  in  her  parents'  lodge  house.  She 
could  not  eat,  her  sleep  was  broken  by  frightful 
dreams,  she  became  as  thin  as  a  copperhead,  as  irri- 
table as  a  lynx. 

One  day  in  April  when  the  sun  was  shining  with 
rare  warmth  through  the  bare  trees  she  went  for  a 
stroll  on  the  tableland.  She  felt  so  ill  that  she  was 
seriously  considering  throwing  herself  over  a  precipice 
and  ending  it  all ;  her  walk  would  lead  her  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  gorge  of  Warrior's  Run.  As  she  passed 
the  aged  beech  tree,  which  had  been  the  scene  of  so 
many  happy  hours,  she  instinctively  glanced  at  the 
huge  smooth  roots.  To  her  amazement  she  saw  a 
freshly  cut  half  moon  on  one  of  them.  Her  heart 
began  to  beat  against  her  breast  so  fast  that  she  feared 
that  the  thumping  would  throw  her  to  the  ground. 
Her  face  flushed,  her  head  became  dizzy.  She  would 
meet  Keneshaw  that  night  as  if  nothing  had  happened, 
but  alas  that  fair  mood  was  fleeting.  In  another  in- 
stant pride  mastered  her  soul ;  revenge  must  be  hers. 

Turning  on  her  heel,  she  quickly  made  for  her 
father's  lodge  house.  Going  up  to  the  old  warrior, 
who  was  sitting  on  a  red  bear's  hide,   smoking  and 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  257 

nodding  in  the  sun,  she  fell  on  her  knees,  and  tearfully 
announced  that  she  had  a  confession  to  make.  Her 
health  had  been  poor  because  her  conscience  troubled 
her  for  her  misdeeds.  She  had  met  and  loved  a  spy 
from  the  Susquehannocks,  had  given  him  much  in- 
formation concerning  her  people.  She  repented  of 
this  wickedness,  she  gave  herself  up  to  die  at  the 
stake.  At  midnight  coming  the  scout  could  be  caught 
at  a  certain  giant  beech  tree  on  the  table  land. 

The  old  father,  loving  his  tribe  first,  his  family  rela- 
tions afterward,  shed  no  tears  on  hearing  this  awful 
recital  of  perfidy.  When  she  finished  he  reached  for 
a  war  club  which  lay  nearby  and  smote  her  over  the 
forehead,  knocking  her  senseless.  There  he  left  her 
while  he  strode  along  the  village  street  to  the  abode  of 
his  chief.     He  quickly  told  him  of  the  awful  news. 

The  chief  was,  of  course,  indignant.  He  sent  his 
bodyguard  to  bring  Alletah  to  his  presence.  When 
she  recovered  consciousness  she  admitted  the  truth, 
and  then  she  was  ordered  bound  and  gagged  and  the 
guards  threw  her  like  a  sack  of  meal  into  an  aban- 
doned cabin.  At  midnight  Keneshaw  was  surrounded 
at  the  trysting  place,  overpowered,  gagged  and  carried 
into  the  presence  of  the  chief  who  decreed  that  the  spy 
and  his  traitor  sweetheart  should  die  together  at  the 
stake  at  daybreak.  A  huge  pyre  was  built  in  the  open 
space  in  front  of  the  chieftain's  castle.  In  the  center  of 
it  a  hard  oak  pole  or  stake  was  imbedded  in  the  earth. 

Just  as  the  first  red  glare  of  the  new  day  appeared 
above  the  Warrior's  Ridge,  the  two  renegade  lovers 


258  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

were  strapped  back  to  back  to  the  stake.  Before  the 
torch  was  applied  by  the  chief  the  gags  were  removed, 
and  he  demanded  of  the  victims  if  they  had  anything 
to  say.  Alletah,  paler  and  more  beautiful  than  ever, 
was  the  first  to  speak. 

With  a  clear  and  composed  voice  she  said,  "My 
king,  I  do  not  claim  any  honor  for  my  repentence  and 
confession.  I  did  it  because  I  learned  that  my  fellow- 
sufferer,  who  was  once  my  lover,  is  married  and  had 
been  deceiving  me.  Revenge  prompted  me  to  confess. 
I  die  a  disgrace  to  my  family  and  my  tribe." 

A  great  silence  fell  over  the  crowd  at  these  words, 
which  became  more  intense  when  Keneshaw  began  to 
speak. 

"Great  king,"  he  said,  "I  am  guilty  of  spying  and 
have  no  excuses  to  make,  but  I  swear  I  am  not  mar- 
ried. It  is  a  false  accusation.  I  die  full  of  love  for 
the  fair  girl  who,  tied  to  my  back,  will  share  my  fate." 

At  these  words,  Alletah  uttered  a  piercing  scream, 
and  her  head  fell  down  on  her  breast.  She  had 
swooned  away. 

But  the  details  of  the  lovers'  private  lives  mattered 
nothing  to  the  angry  multitude.  As  spies  and  traitors 
they  must  die,  and  they  demanded  that  the  torch  be 
applied  forthwith.  The  king  first  cut  out  Keneshaw's 
tongue  with  his  scalping  knife,  and  then  applied  the 
torch  to  the  fagots.  The  cruel  flames  leaped  up  about 
the  helpless  victims.  Keneshaw  met  his  death  in  full 
consciousness,  but  Alletah  never  recovered  her  senses, 
therefore  her  end  must  have  been  a  painless  one.     But 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  259 

both  had  given  up  their  Hves  through  a  misunderstand- 
ing, through  another's  foul  envy  and  jealousy.  The 
searching  flames  soon  swept  everything  bare,  and  then 
the  crowd  dispersed,  feeling  that  they  had  witnessed 
the  extinction  of  two  human  fiends. 

Out  in  the  Tussey  Mountains,  near  the  crystal 
spring,  where  Globe  Run  heads,  where  the  old  folks 
say  the  Indians  used  to  camp,  is  a  circular  spot  of 
ground  where  no  grass  or  trees  will  grow.  Barren  in 
a  plenteous  land,  it  strikes  terror  to  even  an  unfeeling 
heart.  And  that  desert  spot,  the  old  folks  say,  is 
where  Keneshaw  and  Alletah  were  burned  at  the  stake 
nearly  three  hundred  years  ago.  Perhaps  fate  leaves 
that  spot  desolate  as  a  warning  to  other  lovers,  perhaps 
so  that  their  memories  may  linger  yet  a  while,  a  sort  of 
Indian  Abelard  and  Heloise.  But  as  to  the  details  the 
reader  will  have  to  supply  himself,  for  the  only  person 
who  could  furnish  the  missing  links  was  Captain 
Logan,  who  now  sleeps  at  the  mouth  of  Chickacla- 
moose. 


260  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 


XVIII. 

WILD  DUCKS. 

A  REMINISCENCE  OF  AN  INDIAN  CHIEF. 

OLD  LAPPOWINZO,  the  chief  of  the  Lenni 
Lenape,  after  his  disastrous  business  dealings 
with  the  whites  in  Northampton  County  in 
1737,  was  naturally  anxious  to  withdraw  to  a  more 
secluded  locality,  and  first  wended  his  way  to  a 
wooded  island  on  the  Susquehanna,  a  few  miles  below 
the  present  town  of  Selin's  Grove.  There  he  felt  he 
would  not  receive  the  reproaches  of  his  tribesmen,  who 
regarded  his  complaisance  to  the  notorious  "walking 
purchase"  as  either  the  act  of  a  madman  or  a  criminal. 
By  it  he  had  agreed  to  cede  to  the  white  men  lands  ex- 
tending from  Neshaminy  Creek  "as  far  as  a  man  could 
walk  in  a  day  and  a  half." 

When  the  survey  was  made  a  road  was  built  inland, 
and  a  trained  runner  did  the  rest.  But  as  the  chief 
stuck  to  his  words,  it  is  no  wonder  that  James  Logan, 
of  the  Proprietary  Government,  spoke  of  him  as  "an 
honest  old  Indian." 

On  the  cozy  isle  in  the  "big  river"  he  hoped  to  have 
peace,  and  as  if  to  typify  his  rank,  he  built  his  cabin 
beneath  a  giant  white  oak,  on  the  dead  crest  of  which 
swung  a  bald  eagle's  nest.    Many  generations  of  eagles 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  261 

occupied  this  imposing  eyrie  before  Lappowinzo's 
coming  and  after  him;  in  fact,  the  last  of  these  eagles 
was  shot  by  a  Selin's  Grove  resident  less  than  a  dozen 
years  ago.  It  had  lost  its  mate  in  1 867.  Shortly  after 
that  Lappowinzo's  oak  shared  the  ignominious  fate  of 
so  many  other  historic  trees,  and  was  cut  down  for  fire- 
wood. 

But  the  Indians  at  Shamokin  (now  Sunbury)  and 
at  Toganogan's  Town,  near  McKee's  Half  Falls, 
heard  of  the  presence  of  the  old  recluse,  and  came  to 
see  him  in  their  canoes  and  taunted  him  until  life  be- 
came unbearable.  Though  he  loved  the  blowy  little 
island  where  the  eagles  circled  above  him  when  the  sky 
was  grey  and  stormy  and  the  waters  high,  he  could 
not  stand  ridicule.  So  one  dark  night,  accompanied 
by  a  faithful  nephew,  he  started  up  stream  in  a  canoe. 
They  proceeded  along  the  West  Branch  to  the  Bald 
Eagle,  thence  up  Spring  Creek  to  the  site  of  the  town 
of  Bellefonte.  After  spending  a  few  w^eks  with  old 
Chief  O-Ko-Cho,  at  the  Mammoth  Spring,  a  trip  in- 
land was  made,  with  the  result  that  a  pretty  site  for  a 
permanent  abode  at  the  foot  of  Nittany  Mountain  was 
selected.  There  Lappowinzo  seemed  content  with  all 
the  world.  It  was  a  veritabe  hunter's  paradise,  teem- 
ing with  bison,  elk,  deer  and  several  kinds  of  bears. 
The  climate  was  mild,  the  sharp  winds  so  noticeable 
on  the  Susquehanna  being  tempered  by  the  giant  moun- 
tain which  rose  precipitously  at  the  rear  of  his  modest 
shanty.  The  scenery  was  the  finest  he  had  ever  looked 
at.     He  nev^r  hoped  for  more  in  the  world  to  come. 


262  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

But  in  this  sylvan  elysium  he  was  not  to  be  left  un- 
disturbed. The  Indians  from  the  Seven  Mountains 
soon  came  trooping  over  to  see  the  chief  who  had  sold 
his  people's  birthright  for  the  white  man's  glittering 
speech.  They  ridiculed  the  aged  warrior  in  every  con- 
ceivable way,  they  were  killing  him  by  inches.  So 
again,  on  a  dark  night,  accompanied  by  his  faithful 
nephew,  he  started  away,  this  time  for  the  beautiful 
valley  of  the  Juniata.  There  he  felt  he  would  be  at 
peace  and  could  spend  the  balance  of  his  allotted  time 
on  earth  free  from  abuse  and  contumely.  He  selected 
a  quiet  nook,  under  a  spreading  buttonwood  tree,  on 
what  is  now  the  Jenkins'  farm,  near  the  present  town 
of  Newton  Hamilton.  For  a  time  he  was  very  happy 
there.  He  was  left  alone  for  at  least  a  year,  which 
was  the  calmest  year  he  knew  after  his  pitiful  blunder 
in  the  East.  He  passed  his  time  carving  out  very  sharp 
hickory  darts  or  arrows,  which  he  used  with  unerring 
aim  at  the  wild  ducks  which  were  present  at  all  times 
of  the  year  in  the  lovely  river.  He  often  invited 
settlers  or  adventurers  to  stop  at  his  cabin  while  he 
"harpooned"  them  a  string  of  ducks.  Without  mov- 
ing from  his  favorite  seat,  a  wooden  bench  nailed  to 
some  projecting  roots  of  the  tree,  he  would  bring  down 
a  score  of  birds  in  as  many  minutes.  If  they  fell  in 
the  river  he  would  wade  or  swim  after  them,  if  the 
weather  was  mild,  but  in  the  fall  or  spring  he  would 
quickly  launch  his  paper-birch  canoe  and  retrieve  them. 

But  in  the  course  of  time  the  Juniata  Indians  learned 
his  identity,  and  they  ceased  to  take  him  seriously, 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  263 

They  taunted  and  abused  him,  they  mahgned  him  to 
the  white  visitors.  There  seemed  no  peace  on  earth  for 
the  grand  old  chief.  Like  the  Wandering  Jew,  he 
must  ever  be  on  the  move.  Sometimes  he  tried  to  rea- 
son with  his  tormentors.  Every  one  made  mistakes,  he 
said.  He  had,  previous  to  agreeing  to  the  walking 
purchase,  heard  no  ill  of  the  Proprietary  Government, 
he  thought  he  was  dealing  with  men  of  honor,  like 
himself.  If  trickery  had  been  practiced  the  onus  fell 
on  the  whites,  not  himself.  He  asked  to  be  let  alone  in 
his  old  days.  If  he  had  made  a  blunder  he  was  sorry; 
he  would  not  wittingly  have  sacrificed  his  people's 
territory.  But  the  savages,  angered  by  many  wrongs 
at  the  white  men's  hands,  were  anxious  to  have  a  scape- 
goat, and  this  old  defenseless  chief  suited  the  purpose 
admirably.  There  was  nothing  left  to  do  but  to  move 
again. 

Stronger  than  the  desire  to  be  left  alone  was  the  love 
of  home,  of  old  scenes,  old  memories.  If  he  must  be 
abused,  why  not  at  home  instead  of  in  a  strange  local- 
ity. Sorrowfully  he  confided  to  his  nephew  that  he 
would  like  to  return  to  his  old  headquarters  in  North- 
ampton County.  It  was  galling  to  pride  to  go  back 
there,  but  it  was  home.  The  young  man  tried  to  dis- 
suade the  aged  warrior,  but  it  was  useless.  Back  he 
would  go  to  the  old  torments.  He  could  endure  them 
best  amid  scenes  he  loved,  and  from  people  whom  he 
understood. 

Lappowinzo  was  philosopher  enough  to  know  that 
there   is   actual   retribution    for   every   misstep   made. 


264  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

whether  intentional  or  unintentional — all  must  pay  the 
price.  There  is  no  escaping  from  it ;  it  is  a  scales  which 
never  fails  to  balance,  that  no  one  can  cheat  who  lives. 
And  worst  of  all,  bad  judgment  is  as  heavily  penal- 
ized as  bad  intentions — to  err  is  to  suffer. 

On  one  of  his  last  evenings  under  the  old  sycamore 
Lappowinzo  went  over  all  this  with  a  young  English 
surveyor,  who  listened  attentively  to  the  chieftain's  tale 
of  sorrow.  After  he  had  unburdened  himself,  he 
seemed  to  feel  much  better.  The  wrinkles  in  the  old 
face  smoothed  out,  a  new  fire  came  into  the  amber- 
colored  eyes.  It  was  as  if  he  had  temporarily  emerged 
from  torment  into  a  land  of  peace.  He  began  to  smile 
and  chuckle  to  himself.  Then  he  started  to  tell  of  his 
hunting  exploits  in  his  youth,  when  the  Wind  Gap  was 
the  favorite  path  of  the  black  moose,  or  original,  on 
their  migrations  between  New  York  and  Pennsylvania. 
In  the  fall  he  would  lay  in  wait  for  these  sylvan  kings, 
slaying  as  many  as  six  in  a  day,  each  one  pierced 
through  the  heart  by  his  unswerving  arrov/s.  Some  of 
the  mammoth  bulls  weighed  a  ton,  and  fed  the  entire 
encampment  for  a  week,  as  no  part  was  wasted,  not 
like  the  white  hunters  who  after  reserving  a  choice 
saddle  always  left  the  rest  to  rot  or  feed  the  wolves. 
Then  he  told  of  battles  with  fierce  panthers  at  their 
favorite  haunt,  the  headwaters  of  the  Lehigh,  how  he 
had  climbed  to  their  ledges,  resolving  to  dislodge  them 
or  die,  and  had  invariably  sent  the  cougar  families 
sprawling  into  the  valleys  below.  He  told  of  battles 
with  other  tribes  of  Indians,  of  massacres  and  scalping 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  265 

bees,  of  how  his  warriors  would  lay  down  their  lives 
for  him  in  the  old  days.  Then  his  soul,  mellowed  by 
the  flood  of  memories  and  a  sympathetic  audience,  he 
turned  to  the  supernatural,  to  legendary  lore,  to  that 
strange  realm  between  the  known  and  the  unknown 
where  every  Indian  is  at  his  best. 

Seeing  a  flock  of  wild  ducks — Mallards — fly  above 
the  river,  he  carelessly  picked  up  his  bow  and  arrow, 
which  had  been  lying  at  his  feet,  and  brought  down 
the  leader,  a  fine  drake,  with  the  dart  clear  through  his 
heart.  It  fell  near  the  surveyor's  feet,  and  he  ex- 
pressed the  greatest  admiration  for  the  old  chief's 
matchless  skill.  Lappowinzo  smiled  and  related  how 
he  had  once  impaled  three  ducks  in  the  air  with  a  single 
arrow.  It  was  a  feat  never  equaled  before  or  since  to 
his  knowledge.  The  gun  he  said  was  a  fine  weapon, 
but  it  was  only  for  lazy  men,  a  real  lover  of  sport  would 
scorn  it  and  hold  to  his  bow  and  darts.  Any  man,  he 
claimed,  could  learn  to  use  a  gun,  it  required  only 
average  sight  and  intelligence.  The  bow  and  arrow 
belonged  to  picked  men,  the  elect  of  the  hunter's 
fraternity.  It  was  a  sign  of  the  Indians'  decadence 
when  they  abandoned  their  old  weapon  for  the  new. 

Just  then  a  kingfisher  or  Halcyon  darted  across  the 
river,  rattling  loudly  as  only  a  kingfisher  can.  The 
old  Indian  said  that  he  would  shoot  it  on  the  wing 
through  the  eye.  In  seeming  leisurely  fashion  he  ex- 
tricated his  dart  from  the  duck's  heart,  took  aim,  and 
before  the  Halcyon  had  time  to  alight  on  the  dead 
black  birch  on  the  opposite  bank  to  which  it  was  head- 


266  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

ing,  it  fell,  pierced  through  the  eye.  It  was  a  difficult 
shot,  as  the  bird  was  flying  directly  across  the  water, 
with  its  back  to  the  archer. 

Seeing  another  Mallard  flying  near  the  tree,  he  de- 
clared that  he  would  impale  it  to  the  trunk,  but  not 
having  another  arrow  handy  that  remarkable  feat  was 
left  undone.  The  old  chief  smiled  again,  remarking 
that  as  long  as  he  could  not  show  his  guest  an  impaled 
Mallard,  he  would  tell  him  the  old  legend  of  how  and 
why  the  first  wild  ducks  were  created  on  the  Juniata. 
The  wild  duck  was  not  old  in  creation,  was  one  of  the 
last  living  things  brought  into  existence,  and  curiously 
enough  one  of  the  most  useful  of  all  forms  of  life.  The 
afternoon  was  becoming  chilly,  so  the  old  Indian 
threw  some  more  wood  on  the  fire,  sending  up  a  warm, 
cheery  blaze.  Settling  himself  back  on  his  bench,  and 
seemingly  gazing  up  at  the  topmost  branches  of  the  old 
tree,  he  began  his  story. 

It  seemed  that  in  the  old  days,  when  the  world  was 
new  and  the  Indians  enjoyed  the  full  confidence  of 
their  Maker,  the  Gitchie-Manitto  was  in  the  habit  of 
visiting  the  earth  for  the  purpose  of  noting  the  progress 
of  his  people,  and  of  ascertaining  their  wants.  Those 
were  happy  days,  before  humanity,  gloating  with 
fancied  security  and  power  sought  to  cast  aside  the 
Supreme  Mind  which  was  first  cause  of  all.  In  those 
early  days  the  sun  always  shone  on  this  beautiful 
world.  It  was  only  when  mankind  went  astray  that 
the  clouds  and  storms  typified  the  grief  of  the  Gitchie- 
Manitto.     Of  all  the  regions  created,  the  valley  of  the 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  267 

Juniata  was  accounted  the  loveliest.  It  was  therefore 
the  favored  spot  of  the  Gitchie-Manitto  when  visiting 
the  earth.  The  residents  of  the  valley  were  the  chosen 
people,  as  coming  into  closest  contact  with  the  benefi- 
cent influence  of  their  Maker.  They  were  a  happy 
race,  these  early  dwellers  along  the  Juniata;  they 
wanted  for  nothing,  yet  their  wants  were  few.  The 
beautiful  river,  with  its  pure  limpid  water,  was  their 
delight,  rippling  and  dancing  in  the  sunlight  by  their 
doors,  reflecting  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun  at  evening, 
the  rays  of  moon  and  stars  by  night.  It  never  looked 
twice  alike;  it  was  called  the  Happy  River,  as  it  was 
never  roily  or  angry;  winds  and  rains  affected  it  little. 
In  the  winter  when  it  froze  over,  it  resembled  a  won- 
drous sheet  of  rock  crystal,  or  a  beautiful  maiden 
asleep.  The  most  elegant  and  shapely  trees  grew  by 
its  banks,  stately  elms,  willows,  and  birches,  hemlocks 
with  branches  that  kissed  the  waves,  tall  dark  pines, 
like  silent  guardians,  massive  oaks  that  harbored  the 
singing  birds.  All  the  wildflowers  grew  by  its  shores, 
starting  in  the  early  spring  with  modest  white  blossoms, 
windflowers,  then  a  little  later  would  come  clusters  of 
pink,  swamp  pink,  then  red,  cardinal  flower,  then  blue, 
pickerel  weed,  then  purple,  iron  weed,  and  lastly  in 
late  September  the  banks  would  be  lined  by  the  rich 
clusters  of  the  swamp  sunflowers.  The  glory  of  the 
spring  was  only  exceeded  by  the  rich  tints  of  autumn, 
the  scarlets  of  the  oaks,  the  vermilion  of  the  tupelos, 
the  lavender  of  the  beeches,  the  yellow  of  the  birches, 
the  brown  of  the  elms,  the  grey  of  willows. 


268  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

It  was  all  so  exquisitely  hued  that  the  souls  of  the 
simple  dwellers  along  the  lovely  river  were  uplifted 
and  made  to  feel  the  completeness  of  Nature's  religion 
when  it  is  worshipped  voluntarily  every  day.  TTiere 
seemed  to  be  nothing  lacking  in  this  rare  bower,  crea- 
tion had  said  its  last  word.  But  as  in  art,  there  is  no 
end  to  creation ;  it  is  an  endless  reaching  out,  and  end- 
less beautifying  of  the  beautiful.  Art  and  Nature 
never  tire  as  they  can  never  accept  a  fixed  standard, 
all  is  change,  advance,  joy.  Death,  unending  and  still 
is  what  all  recoil  from,  as  against  the  eternal  pro- 
gression of  Nature  with  its  endless  chain  of  possibil- 
ities. 

When  the  Gitchie-Manitto  visited  the  Juniata  Val- 
ley on  one  occasion,  he  paused  to  enjoy  the  transpar- 
ent beauty  of  the  ever-flowing  water.  The  river 
flowed  over  a  gravelly  bed,  filled  with  smooth  pebbles 
of  every  color,  which  added  greatly  to  the  translucency. 
Among  the  pebbles  were  mussels,  oysters  and  clams 
here  and  there  eddying  about  with  the  current,  in  other 
places  half  buried  in  the  shining  gravel.  Their  shells 
were  not  as  bright  and  attractive  looking  as  many  of  the 
shells  of  the  sea;  they  could  hardly  be  said  to  add  to 
the  beauty  of  the  marine  picture.  Somehow  or  other 
these  shells  should  be  improved  upon  for  the  pleasure 
of  the  good  people  who  would  look  upon  them  every 
day.  The  fish  which  swam  hither  and  thither  were  all 
beautifully  colored,  some  reflected  on  their  scales  a 
golden  hue,  others  silver,  others  were  mottled  with 
every  color  of  the  rainbow.     These  shells  should  at 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  269 

least  be  as  beautiful  as  the  fish.  Then  the  river  bot- 
tom would  resemble  a  bed  of  jewels. 

Just  at  that  minute  a  beautiful  bird,  a  golden  robin, 
the  sun  shining  on  his  many  colors,  flew  over  the  river, 
reflecting  a  glorious  image  on  the  calm  flowing  water. 
Instantly  the  ideas  of  the  Gitchie-Manitto  changed, 
the  shells  should  no  longer  languish  half  buried  among 
the  pebbles  of  the  river's  bed,  they  too  should  be  birds, 
birds  of  water  as  well  as  air,  that  could  swim  as  well  as 
fly,  that  could  live  under  the  water  as  well  as  on  it  and 
above  it.  They  would  add  to  the  harmonies  of  lake, 
pool  or  stream,  could  furnish  sustenance  as  well  to 
human  beings  in  need  of  food.  They  would  be  of 
bright  colors,  reflecting  the  sun's  rays,  adding  beauty 
and  light  to  the  world.  But  some  shells  should  remain, 
they  were  useful,  but  not  so  plentiful  as  they  once  had 
been. 

And  as  the  Gitchie-Manitto  brooded  over  the  beau- 
tiful and  limpid  Juniata  every  shell  in  the  pebbly  bed 
seemed  to  be  motile  and  expanding.  Little  patches 
of  froth  and  bubbles  seemed  to  obscure  them  from 
view.  They  presented  the  same  appearance  as  water 
birds  working  at  the  bottom  of  a  stream  in  search  for 
food.  This  continued  for  some  minutes ;  it  was  a  pretty 
scene,  these  masses  of  foam  rising  in  every  direction  as 
far  as  the  eye  could  follow  the  river.  What  would  it 
lead  to,  none  but  the  Gitchie-Manitto  himself  could 
know. 

Suddeny  there  was  a  still  greater  commotion,  a 
mighty  splash  was  heard,  it  was  as  if  the  bottom  of 


270  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

the  river  was  suddenly  shooting  upward;  there  was  a 
merry  sound,  a  squan>k'm§,  quacli'mg  sound,  as  thou- 
sands of  wings  appeared  at  the  water's  surface,  then 
gaily  colored  heads  and  backs;  they  emerged  every- 
where, a  vast  flock  of  Tvild  ducl^s.  What  a  noise  they 
made  as  for  a  moment  they  floated  on  the  river  before 
trying  their  powers  in  the  still  freer  world  of  the  air. 

The  water  was  now  perfectly  calm  again,  and  on  it 
swam  as  many  ducks  as  there  had  been  mussels  and 
clams  and  oysters  in  it  but  a  short  time  before.  Then 
came  another  flapping  of  wings,  and  the  conquest  of 
the  air  began — and  straight  upward  they  flew  in  their 
happiness  as  if  to  pierce  the  very  blue  dome  above  and 
never  come  back  again.  But  after  forming  a  cloud 
which  almost  darkened  the  sun,  they  descended  again 
and  floated  serenely  on  the  beautiful  river.  Then  one 
of  their  number,  as  if  impelled  by  the  old  instinct, 
dived  to  the  bottom  of  the  stream,  and  all  the  others 
followed.  For  a  moment  only  the  tails  were  apparent 
on  the  surface,  looking  very  like  little  hilly  islets,  then 
they  disappeared  altogether,  perhaps  they  had  resumed 
their  old-time  form  as  mussel  shells,  and  it  had  been  just 
a  temporary  mirage  or  illusion.  But  soon  came  the 
splashing,  the  reappearance  of  myriads  of  wings,  then 
brightly  colored  heads  and  backs,  and  soon  again  the 
river  swam  full  of  the  wild  ducks. 

The  next  move  of  the  merry  company  was  to  ex- 
plore the  reedy  banks,  to  seek  out,  under  overhanging 
trees  and  roots,  dark  hiding  places  or  nests.  There 
was  a  scurrying  in  all  directions  until  it  seemed  as  if  the 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  271 

flocks  had  completely  vanished  again.  But  after 
awhile  all  were  satisfied  and  they  floated  out  into  view 
again. 

Needless  to  say,  the  Gitchie-Manitto  was  pleased 
with  his  work.  He  had  made  life  and  happiness  and 
beauty,  all  for  the  benefit  of  his  world,  his  world  of 
the  Juniata.  After  he  had  watched  the  duck  colony 
until  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun  shot  out  from  between 
the  tall  pines  on  the  summits  of  Jack's  Mountain,  he 
wafted  himself  away  to  other  regions  and  other  works. 

When  a  new  day  dawned  the  people  who  lived  by 
the  Juniata  saw  the  beautiful  water  fowl,  and  mar- 
veled at  the  absence  of  the  mussels  from  the  river  bed ; 
som^e  wiser  than  the  rest  figured  out  what  had  hap- 
pened, they  had  been  blessed  again.  And  those  early 
Indians  alv/ays  loved  the  wild  ducks.  They  never 
killed  them  wantonly,  as  the  later  red  men  did  after 
coming  in  contact  with  the  rapacious  whites.  When 
doubts  as  to  the  meaning  of  things  filled  their  minds, 
and  their  hearts  were  sad,  all  the}'  had  to  do  was  to 
recall  the  genesis  of  the  ducks  to  feel  that  the  Gitchie- 
Manitto  was  not  really  so  very  far  away.  Though 
they  had  often  sorely  tried  him,  and  departed  far  from 
his  plans  and  hopes,  they  felt  he  would  forgive  them, 
and  make  them  over  as  he  had  done  with  the  dull, 
formless  mussel  shells.  The  wild  duck  was  an  emblem 
of  hope,  of  better  things,  of  a  brighter  day  to  come. 

And  when  old  Lappowinzo  had  finished  his  narra- 
tive there  were  tears  in  the  eyes  of  the  young  English 
surveyor.     He  resolved  if  in  the  future  he  had  a  fam- 


272  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

ily  to  recount  the  story  to  them,  the  story  with  its 
message  of  trust  and  cheer,  and  also  as  proof  of  the 
innate  gentleness  of  the  old  Indian  chief,  who  driven 
from  post  to  pillar,  was  typical  of  a  changing  order  of 
things. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  273 


XIX. 

A  STORY  OF  BLACK  JACK. 

THE  NARRATIVE  OF  A  BURIED  TREASURE. 

THE  recent  discovery  of  a  box  of  gold  money, 
mostly  Spanish  pieces,  which  had  been  buried  on 
an  island  in  the  Susquehanna  near  Selin's  Grove, 
recalls  the  ancient  tradition  of  the  cause  of  Black  Jack's 
coming  to  the  wilds  of  Central  Pennsylvania.  This 
remarkable  character,  called  variously  "The  Black 
Rifle,"  "The  Black  Hunter"  and  "The  Wild  Hunter 
of  the  Juniata,"  whose  name  will  endure  as  long  as 
Jack's  Mountains  stand,  was  none  other  than  plain 
Jacob  Schwartz,  of  Front  Street,  Philadelphia.  The 
son  of  a  Spanish  sailor  and  a  German  lodging  house 
keeper's  daughter,  he  seemed  hardly  destined  for  the 
bold  life  of  a  borderer.  But  the  story  of  the  buried 
treasure  sent  him  to  the  frontier,  where  he  fell  in  love 
and  married,  and  for  self-protection  alone  became  a  re- 
lentless foe  of  the  redmen.  His  swarthy  complexion 
gave  rise  to  many  conjectures.  Some  declared  that  he 
was  a  halfbreed  Indian,  but  his  hatred  of  the  red  race 
does  not  bear  this  out.  Several  historians  have  hinted 
at  Negro  blood  being  the  cause  of  his  darkness,  but 
there  was  nothing  Negroid  in  his  features  or  manner, 
and   his   descendants,   who   are   among   the   most   re- 


274  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

spected  persons  in  the  State,  are  the  best  refutation. 

The  one  great  disappointment  of  his  life  was  when 
General  Braddock  refused  his  services  in  1  755,  and  he 
proclaimed  to  the  end  of  his  days  he  would  have  saved 
the  general's  life  and  prevented  the  awful  massacre,  if 
he  could  have  acted  as  scout  of  the  party.  It  is  said 
that  because  of  his  dark  complexion  and  heavy  black 
hair,  Braddock  suspected  that  he  possessed  Jewish 
blood.  These  were  the  "unsurmountable  reasons"  why 
he  would  not  make  a  desirable  "brother  officer."  But 
that  is  only  another  evidence  of  the  ex-Cold  Streamer's 
shallowness.  A  closer  scrutiny  of  the  "Wild  Hunter's" 
face  would  have  revealed  little  affinity  with  the 
Semitic  race.  His  eyes  were  grey,  and  his  mouth,  at 
that  time  unconcealed  by  the  beard  which  he  later  wore, 
was  small  and  tight-lipped.  There  was  no  undue 
prominence  to  the  cheek  bones,  the  nostrils  of  his  high 
nose  were  those  of  a  European  rather  than  of  an  Ori- 
ental. 

When  Black  Jack's  services  were  rejected,  his  band 
of  frontiersmen  were  also  told  that  "they  were  not 
wanted."  The  rest  of  the  party  accepted  their  fate 
good-naturedly,  but  the  Wild  Hunter,  suspecting  the 
true  reason,  never  forgave  or  forgot.  After  Tom  Fau- 
sett's  confession  that  he  was  the  slayer  of  General 
Bradock  there  can  be  no  truth  to  the  intimation  spread 
by  some  of  Black  Jack's  ignoble  foes  that  he  was  con- 
cerned in  the  cowardly  deed.  Though  he  suffered  much 
from  the  trickery  and  cruelty  of  the  red  men,  and  on 
several   occasions  from  the   treachery  of  the  whites, 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  275 

Black  Jack's  life  was  at  all  times  chivalrous  and 
valorous.  As  one  of  the  most  picturesque  figures  in 
the  history  of  the  Juniata  Valley,  he  deserves  more  at- 
tention paid  to  his  memory,  and  were  it  not  for  the 
historian  Jones,  who  wrote  him  down  correctly,  he 
might  still  be  confused  with  the  Indian  trader,  "Jack" 
Armstrong,  who  was  murdered  in  the  Narrows  in 
1  744. 

But  to  go  back  to  the  Wild  Hunter's  beginnings, 
his  father  whose  visits  to  Philadelphia  were  infrequent 
at  best,  finally  ceased  to  come  at  all,  his  last  appear- 
ance being  when  the  son  was  only  four  years  of  age. 
^X'^lether  he  was  lost  at  sea,  captured  by  pirates,  or  fol- 
lowed the  traditional  sailor's  prerogative  of  finding  a 
girl  in  another  port  is  uncertain,  at  any  rate  he  was  no 
longer  a  part  of  Black  Jack's  history.  The  mother, 
later  marrying  a  man  of  her  own  race  called  Schwartz, 
gave  the  little  boy  his  stepfather's  name,  and  there 
was  nobody  to  object.  But  during  his  visits,  the 
Spanish  sailor  had  frequently  told  his  wife  of  an  ad- 
venture he  had  taken  part  in  several  years  antedating 
his  first  meeting  with  her. 

Some  one  in  authority  at  Madrid  had  devised  a 
scheme  to  map  out  an  inland  waterway  between  the 
Atlantic  seaboard  and  New  Spain.  The  route  was  to 
be  up  the  Susquehanna,  thence  through  the  Great 
Lakes,  or  by  som.e  Utopian  canal  to  the  Spanish  posses- 
sions in  the  West.  As  the  ownership  of  the  vast  cen- 
tral territory  was  not  fully  decided  in  1  709,  much  less 
Pennsylvania  west  of  Chester  County,  the  ultimate  in- 


276  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

tentions  of  Spain  can  be  judged  according  to  one's 
point  of  view.  Probably  disguised  as  harmless 
traders  the  party,  which  was  elaborately  outfitted, 
sailed  up  the  Susquehanna  to  a  point  near  the  present 
town  of  Duncannon,  where  they  transferred  their 
equipment  into  bateaux  and  canoes.  With  Indian 
guides  they  started  up  the  river,  everything  running 
smoothly  until  they  camped  for  a  night  on  a  tiny  island 
a  dozen  miles  below  the  Shawnee  metropolis  of  Sha- 
mokin.  Though  the  guides  were  all  Shawnees,  and 
the  intentions  of  the  Spaniards  of  the  most  friendly  na- 
ture, a  night  attack,  headed  by  the  chief  from  Sha- 
mokin,  was  sprung  on  the  innocent  campers.  All  the 
Spaniards  and  their  Indian  guides  were  killed  or  left 
for  dead.  The  canoe,  which  contained  a  chest  of  gold 
coins,  supposedly  to  be  given  to  some  high  officials  in 
the  Southwest,  had  been  hidden  in  a  dense  willow 
thicket.  It  was  overlooked  by  the  marauders,  who  car- 
ried away  all  else,  even  stripping  the  corpses  of  their 
clothing.  The  father  of  Black  Jack,  his  name  has 
been  lost  in  the  maelstrom  of  history,  was  scalped 
and  thrown  on  a  pile  with  the  other  victims.  He  suf- 
fered unspeakabe  agonies  until  lapsing  into  merciful 
unconsciousness.  When  he  recovereed  his  senses,  he 
was  shivering  with  the  cold,  a  fit  subject  for  river  fever 
or  ague,  but  there  was  nothing  to  wear,  so  he  had  to 
accustom  himself  to  conditions.  Dragging  himself  to 
the  water's  edge,  he  drank  copiously,  which  rather 
steadied  his  nervous  system.  Then  he  thought  of  the 
hidden  canoe  with  its  chest  of  gold.     Limping  to  the 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  277 

spot,  he  was  surprised  to  find  it  untouched.  And  he 
was  made  happy  by  the  sight  of  a  small  red  blanket, 
enough  to  make  a  cloak,  resting  under  the  oaken  chest. 
He  quickly  threw  it  around  him,  and  pushed  the  canoe 
into  the  current.  A  paddle  was  in  the  boat,  so  he  felt 
that  he  could  soon  steer  himself  out  of  the  hostile 
country. 

He  had  not  gone  far,  however,  when  the  canoe 
sprung  a  leak  and  water  began  gushing  in.  He  was 
able  to  make  shore  on  another  island,  where  he  worked 
for  the  balance  of  the  day  repairing  the  craft.  But  it 
had  been  weakened  by  the  heavy  weight  of  the  chest, 
as  well  as  of  several  brawny  red  men,  and  was  unfit 
for  a  long  journey.  But  the  thought  of  abandoning 
the  treasure,  such  as  few  men  could  earn  in  a  lifetime 
was  abhorrent  to  him.  He  pushed  off  a  second  time, 
but  was  barely  able  to  beach  on  another  islet,  to  avoid 
being  completely  swamped.  There  was  a  choice  of 
two  things,  either  to  remain  on  the  island  and  build  a 
new  boat,  or  to  temporarily  abandon  the  treasure.  He 
could  not  build  a  new  boat,  as  he  had  not  even  a 
pocket-knife.  Indians  were  moving  all  over  the  river 
in  canoes,  sooner  or  later  he  would  be  caught  and  mur- 
dered if  he  tarried.  There  was  nothing  left  to  do  but 
to  abandon  the  chest.  The  canoe  would  carry  his 
weigh,  he  felt  certain  of  that.  He  broke  off  the  top 
of  the  chest  with  a  heavy  stone,  and  took  several  hand- 
fuls  of  gold  pieces.  Then  he  replaced  the  lid,  and 
buried  the  chest  on  dry  ground  in  the  center  of  the 
island.     He  put  the  money  he  had  taken  in  the  bottom 


278  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

of  the  canoe  and  re-embarked.  But  the  canoe  started 
to  leak  again.  He  saw  Indians  in  the  distance.  It  was 
a  perilous  position.  After  considerable  effort  he  man- 
aged to  reach  shore ;  it  took  all  his  skill  to  do  so,  as  the 
river  was  high  and  the  current  strong.  It  was  a  cold 
night,  though  in  the  month  of  May,  but  he  took  off  his 
cloak  and  fashioned  it  into  a  sack  to  carry  his  money. 
He  was  now  very  hungry,  not  having  eaten  for  forty- 
eight  hours,  his  scalped  head  stung  and  smarted  like  a 
fiery  cauldron,  his  teeth  chattered,  his  very  ribs  shook 
with  cold.  Yet  he  meant  to  save  the  money  at  any 
cost. 

There  was  an  Indian  path  along  the  west  bank  of 
the  river,  and  that  he  followed  in  the  direction  of  Dun- 
cannon.  All  night  long  he  walked,  and  all  the  next 
day.  He  was  so  crazed  with  hunger  that  he  resolved 
to  surrender  himself  at  the  first  Indian  camp  he  met,  to 
exchange  his  life  and  his  bag  of  gold  for  a  square  meal. 
Toward  nightfall  he  saw  an  Indian  in  a  canoe  in  mid- 
river.  Stepping  out  on  a  rock  near  the  shore,  he  called 
to  him  lustily.  The  river  was  wide  at  that  point,  it 
was  opposite  the  mouth  of  Armstrong's  Creek,  but  at 
length  the  redman  heard  the  outcry.  Heading  his 
canoe  toward  the  stranger,  he  paddled  to  him  with 
great  rapidity.  The  redskin,  who  belonged  to  the 
Saponi  tribe,  was  amazed  at  what  he  saw.  The 
scalped,  naked,  unshaven  Spaniard  made  a  motion 
that  he  was  hungry,  and  shaking  the  bag  so  that  the 
coins  rattled,  signified  that  he  would  give  him  some  of 
the  contents  in  return.     The  Saponi  signaled  to  him  to 


THE  FOREST  ROAD  ACROSS  JACK'S  MOUNTAIN 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  279 

get  into  the  canoe,  and  for  a  time  it  looked  as  if  the  un- 
fortunate adventurer's  troubles  were  over. 

At  the  camp  the  squaws  were  engaged  in  barbecu- 
ing a  buffalo  calf.  It  was  a  pretty  sight,  the  ruddy 
fire  shining  on  their  red  capes  against  the  darkening 
sky.  Though  the  intentions  of  the  rescuing  Indian 
were  probably  of  the  best,  the  chief  was  at  once  sus- 
picious of  the  newcomer's  scalped  head.  He  first  or- 
dered him  clothed  and  fed,  and  then  had  him  thrown 
and  bound,  and  his  bag  of  gold  taken  from  him. 

The  Spaniard  was  so  grateful  to  get  the  meal  that 
he  showed  no  resentment,  he  could  stand  anything  on 
a  full  stomach.  All  summer  and  all  winter  he  re- 
mained a  captive  with  the  Saponis.  He  helped  them 
sow  and  harvest  their  crops,  accompanied  them  on  their 
hunting  expeditions.  Toward  the  end  of  the  winter  he 
was  trusted  to  go  about  unhoppled;  and  on  one  occa- 
sion he  stole  a  gun  and  a  bag  of  shot  and  made  his 
escape.  Somehow  or  other  his  lucky  star  followed 
him,  and  he  managed  to  reach  Philadelphia. 

He  had  barely  arrived  and  was  wandering  aim- 
lessly along  the  docks  when  he  saw  a  boat  getting  ready 
to  set  sail  for  Spain.  A  crew  was  needed,  and  he  al- 
lowed himself  to  be  impressed  and  thus  returned  to  his 
native  land.  He  made  a  number  of  trips  back  to  Phil- 
adelphia, always  stopping  at  a  certain  boarding  place 
on  the  river  front,  eventually  marrying  the  landlady's 
daughter. 

In  Spain  he  had  acquired  a  luxuriant  back  wig,  so 
he  was  not  the  unpresentable  looking  individual  who 


280  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

had  been  left  for  dead  on  the  secluded  island  below 
Shamokin.  He  of  course  told  his  wife  of  the  buried 
treasure,  drawing  diagrams  and  telling  her  that  some 
day  he  would  go  after  it,  and  they  would  be  rich  and 
happy. 

But  he  never  got  started  on  the  trip,  at  least  not  to 
his  wife's  knowledge.  Eventually  he  disappeared  alto- 
gether, and  when  the  widow,  or  whatever  she  was, 
could  make  her  son  understand  she  told  him  of  the 
heritage  which  awaited  him,  that  when  he  was  old 
enough  he  must  reclaim  it.  That  was  why  Jack 
Schwartz  left  his  city  home  for  the  perils  of  the  fron- 
tier. And  that  was  why  he  felt  his  first  sentiments  of 
hatred  for  the  Indian  race. 

Unfortunately  for  him  his  mother's  directions  were 
faulty.  From  her  he  imagined  that  the  chest  was 
buried  on  an  island  in  the  Juniata  and  it  was  there  he 
made  his  most  valiant  efforts  to  discover  it. 

After  his  marriage  his  attention  was  focused  on  more 
practical  pursuits,  providing  for  the  larder,  clearing 
land,  fighting  off  Indian  foes.  For  a  time  domesticity 
caused  his  interest  in  the  treasure  to  cease.  But  when 
the  Indians  murdered  his  wife  and  two  of  his  three 
children  (the  third  was  visiting  its  grandparents)  his 
desire  for  revenge  became  coupled  with  the  thirst  to 
possess  the  fortune  which  it  seemed  the  savages  were 
withholding  from  him.  It  was  only  in  the  latter  days 
of  his  life  that  he  learned  that  the  treasure  was  buried 
in  an  island  on  the  Susquehanna,  and  not  on  the 
Juniata. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  281 

As  the  Indian  wars  dwindled  down  to  an  occasional 
skirmish,  it  came  to  pass  that  he  was  reconciled  with 
James  Logan,  the  Mingo  orator,  who  lived  at  that 
time  at  the  famous  Logan  Spring  near  Reedsville, 
When  "Black  Jack"  was  not  drinking  his  prejudices 
softened,  and  he  often  went  unarmed  to  the  home  of 
Logan,  who  strangely  enough  made  no  attempts  on  his 
life.  Yet  the  legend  is  current  along  the  Juniata  that 
it  was  Logan  who  instigated  the  murder  of  the  Wild 
Hunter's  family.  But  this  cannot  be  correct  on  ac- 
count of  the  apparent  friendship  between  the  two  men. 
Black  Jack  was  an  old  man  when  Logan  came  to 
know  him,  yet  Logan  was  enfeebled  from  drink  and 
age,  and  infirmities  soften  the  worst  of  hatreds. 

James  Logan's  brother.  Captain  Logan,  then  living 
at  Tuckahoe,  had  married  a  Shawnee  maiden,  who 
confided  to  her  brother-in-law  that  one  of  her  relatives 
had  been  in  the  party  which  attacked  the  Spanish  ex- 
plorers on  the  Susquehanna.  They  learned  when  too 
late  that  they  had  missed  the  treasure  chest  and  some 
of  them  had  spent  years  hunting  for  it.  James  Logan 
v/as  rum  soaked  when  he  told  this  to  the  Wild  Hunter, 
and  together  they  went  over  the  crumpled,  torn,  faded 
diagram  which  Captain  Jack  still  possessed.  Logan 
and  Black  Jack,  strange  partners,  resolved  to  hunt 
for  the  treasure  together.  They  spent  an  entire  sum- 
mer at  the  work,  but  Logan,  becoming  disgusted, 
abandoned  the  quest  and  following  a  sudden  impulse 
left  Pennsylvania  for  Ohio. 

Evidently  the  Mingo  orator  and  Black  Jack  became 


282  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

fast  friends  while  on  this  prospecting  tour,  for  in  the 
year  following,  1  772,  the  Wild  Hunter  joined  him  in 
the  West,  and  they  passed  a  year  hunting  and  trap- 
ping. But  the  desire  to  find  the  treasure  was  stronger 
than  all  other  impulses  with  Black  Jack,  and  in  1  773, 
the  year  before  his  death,  he  returned  to  Pennsylvania, 
taking  up  his  abode  at  the  spring  which  bears  his  name 
at  the  foot  of  Jack's  Mountain.  He  was  now  about 
sixty-three  years  of  age,  but  his  life  of  hardships  had 
told  on  his  Herculean  frame.  His  beard  was  snow- 
white,  much  of  the  light  had  gone  out  of  his  cold,  grey 
eyes.  There  was  a  stoop  to  his  giant,  gorilla-like 
shoulders.  He  had  not  killed  an  Indian  in  ten  years, 
was  anxious  to  be  friendly  with  every  one  of  the  sav- 
ages he  met,  but  the  redmen  could  not  forget  the  boast 
he  made  in  1  763  that  he  had  himself  slain  three  hun- 
dred of  their  people.  He  had  parted  bad  friends  with 
Logan,  he  wanted  him  to  return  east  for  another  search 
for  the  treasure,  but  the  Indian  was  a  marked  man  in 
Pennsylvania,  he  was  afraid  to  return.  But  he  was 
safer  there  than  in  Ohio,  as  the  year  of  Black  Jack's 
death  also  witnessed  the  foul  murder  of  all  of  Logan's 
family  by  a  renegade  white  man  named  Daniel  Great- 
house. 

Unwilling  to  go  to  the  Susquehanna  country 
alone,  because  of  his  increasing  feebleness,  Black  Jack 
wintered  at  his  cabin,  hoping  to  be  strong  enough  to 
make  the  journey  in  the  spring.  But  with  the  bloom- 
ing of  the  paw-paw  trees  came  no  increased  strength, 
and  the  trip  seemed  as  far  from  consummation  as  ever. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  283 

To  a  traveling  Presbyterian  preacher,  who  spent  a  night 
at  his  home,  the  Wild  Hunter  stated  that  he  felt  no  re- 
morse for  killing  so  many  Indians,  that  apart  from  his 
having  revenge  for  the  cruel  slaying  of  his  family,  it 
was  necessary  to  get  the  savages  out  of  the  country  to 
make  way  for  the  settlements,  just  as  the  wolves  and 
panthers  had  to  be  exterminated.  He  considered  him- 
self an  agent  of  civilization,  he  would  face  his  Maker 
with  that  plea.  But  he  denied  having  killed  as  many 
as  three  hundred  Indians,  he  had  been  drinking  when  he 
made  such  a  boast.  The  old  hunter's  words  jibing 
with  the  clergyman's  views  of  predestination,  the  pair 
parted  in  a  friendly  manner. 

A  few  days  after  that  the  dead  body  of  the  Wild 
Hunter  was  found  by  his  spring,  a  bullet  through  his 
heart.  As  he  had  not  been  scalped,  few  ascribed  the 
crime  to  the  Indians.  In  the  dead  man's  clutched 
hand  was  found  a  much  soiled  and  frayed  paper, 
which  fell  to  dust  as  the  neighbors  tried  to  pry  it  loose 
from  the  marble-like  fingers.  The  body  of  the  Wild 
Hunter  of  the  Juniata  was  laid  to  rest  on  the  summit 
of  the  mountain  which  bears  his  name  and  which  he 
loved  so  well.  It  is  reliably  stated  that  the  next  year 
when  James  Logan  secretly  revisted  the  Juniata  Val- 
ley for  the  last  time,  he  managed  to  locate  the  grave 
of  his  old-time  foe  and  latter-day  friend,  and  stood  by 
the  mound  of  rocks  for  a  full  hour  in  silent  contempla- 
tion. 

For  many  years  the  spirit  of  the  Wild  Hunter  failed 
to  find  rest.     Just  as  there  are  sleepless  nights  for  the 


284  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

living  body,  there  is  sleeplessness  for  the  soul.  Every 
night  at  the  midnight  hour  the  great,  burly,  swaying 
ghost  would  rise  from  its  tomb,  and  with  hands  grop- 
ing and  tremulous  start  down  the  steep  mountain  to  the 
spring.  Fully  a  score  of  reputable  persons  saw  the 
ghost,  the  historian  Jones  attests  to  this,  some  of  them 
saw  it  a  dozen  times  or  more,  so  often  that  they  ceased 
to  fear  it.  In  fact  they  regarded  it  as  one  of  the  regu- 
lar denizens  of  the  mountain,  like  the  wolves  and  lynxes. 
Seated  by  the  spring,  breathing  heavily  the  ghost 
would  reach  out  its  right  hand,  as  if  to  give  something 
that  looked  like  a  scrap  of  paper  to  the  belated 
passerby.  Hie  thin  mouth  would  open  and  snap,  as  if 
trying  vainly  to  articulate,  tears  like  moisture  on  a  stone 
would  appear  on  the  cold  grey  eyes,  for  no  one  un- 
derstood. 

Further  west  along  the  Juniata,  out  on  the  Rays- 
town  Branch  in  those  days,  lived  a  family  named 
Rote,  who  often  discussed  the  purpose  of  this  great 
unquiet  spirit,  how  it  could  be  laid.  The  old  maternal 
grandmother  from  the  north  of  Ireland  recited  the 
formula  that  could  solve  the  mystery  and  bring  peace. 
When  the  ghost  extended  its  hand  the  seer  must  not 
tremble  and  run  away,  but  hold  his  ground,  and  take 
whatever  the  spectre  wished  to  present.  But  he  must 
hold  a  wet  handkerchief  over  his  hand,  lest  it  be  burned. 
That  would  end  the  story  and  send  the  Wild  Hunter's 
shade  to  that  bourne  where  roam  the  fiery  essence  of 
Toconontie  or  "the  Black  Prince,"  of  Allumoppies,  of 
Canassatego,  of  Teedyuscung,  of  Scaruaddy,  in  en- 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  285 

forced  calm.  But  the  thunders  of  the  Revolution  in- 
tervened. The  old  grandmother  from  Donegal  went 
to  her  reward  all  peace,  the  young  boys  fought  with  the 
Associators  and  almost  forgot  the  memories  of  the  past 
in  the  fury  of  battle.  But  when  they  laid  down  their 
muskets  and  returned  to  the  calms  and  joys  of  dear 
old  Path  Valley,  they  heard  that  Black  Jack's  ghost 
was  still  worrying,  still  clambering  about  his  rocky 
mountain  at  night. 

One  night  the  young  veterans  left  their  dogs  at 
home,  they  carried  no  lights,  and  tramped  in  darkness 
over  to  the  famous  spring,  where  they  waited  the 
witching  hour.  At  the  moment  of  twelve  they  heard  a 
heavy  breathing  high  up  on  the  mountain  side.  Nearer 
and  nearer  it  came,  louder  and  louder.  How  a  soul 
must  suffer  to  breathe  like  that!  At  length  it  came  into 
view,  a  great,  unsteady  ghost,  the  pale  starlight  spar- 
kling through  the  tree  tops  on  its  capacious  breast.  The 
cold  eyes  blinked  and  glittered,  one  huge  arm  was  ex- 
tended, as  if  to  present  something.  Deftly  one  of  the 
young  men  dipped  his  handkerchief  in  the  spring  and 
slipped  it  over  his  hand.  Then  he  advanced  to  meet 
the  ghost.  Three  things  happened.  The  young  soldier 
found  himself  holding  a  piece  of  very  yellow,  ragged 
paper;  there  were  huge  black  finger  marks  scorched  all 
over  the  linen  handkerchief;  the  wheezing  ghost  was  no- 
where to  be  seen.  The  paper,  still  an  enigma  of  faded 
scrawls,  and  the  scorched  handkerchief  are  still  in  the 
possession  of  the  descendants  of  the  brave  young  man. 
So  far  as  it  is  known  Black  Jack's  soul  is  at  peace. 


286  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 


XX. 

TOM  FAUSETT. 

THE  RECORD  OF  A  TRIPLE  LOVE  TRAGEDY. 

AS  slayer  of  General  Edward  Braddock  in  1  755, 
Tom  Fausett  has  found  a  place  in  history,  even 
though  he  killed  his  commanding  officer  from 
the  rear  and  in  a  fit  of  anger.  As  a  man  who  lived  to 
the  age  of  one  hundred  and  ten  years,  his  grave  is  still 
pointed  out  along  the  State  Road  near  Ohiopyle  Falls, 
in  Fayette  County,  he  will  always  be  of  interest  to  sci- 
entists and  statisticians.  As  the  husband  of  three 
women  who  were  murdered  by  Indians,  two  of  them 
killed  "before  his  very  eyes,"  his  tragedy  strikes  a  sym- 
pathetic note  with  the  chivalrous  and  the  brave. 

Though  he  was  bom  in  the  Cumberland  Valley, 
Tom  Fausett  after  leaving  the  parental  roof,  made  his 
first  essay  in  pioneering  and  domesticity  in  Woodcock 
Valley,  which  is  adjacent  to  the  valley  of  the  "Match- 
less Juniata."  Building  a  small  cabin  near  Coffee 
Run,  he  soon  secured  a  good-looking  Irish  girl  to  share 
it  with  him  as  his  wife.  He  was  married  less  than  six 
months,  when  returnmg  home  one  evening  from  a  hunt, 
he  found  the  lovely  bride  lying  inside  the  cabin  door, 
scalped  and  her  throat  cut.  As  the  body  was  still 
warm,  he  put  his  dog  on  the  trail,  and  all  that  night 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  287 

tracked  the  wily  murderers  over  the  mountains.  When 
he  got  back  to  the  shack  in  the  morning  the  body  had 
been  removed.  He  never  found  it  again,  although  he 
was  sure  that  Indians  and  not  wild  beasts  had  done  it. 
Heartbroken,  he  left  the  valley  concluding  that  it  had 
been  a  foolhardy  act  to  bring  a  woman  into  such  a  re- 
mote, savage  region. 

But  as  he  loved  the  Juniata  country  nothing  could 
induce  him  to  return  to  the  banks  of  the  Conodogwinet. 
He  therefore  made  himself  a  small  clearing  in  Liberty 
Valley,  near  the  headv/aters  of  Buffalo  Creek.  A  few 
bison  still  summered  there,  as  well  as  much  other  game. 
It  was  a  more  smiling  vale  than  he  had  lived  in  previ- 
ously, everything  seemed  to  augur  well  for  happiness 
there.  He  found  another  Irish  girl  from  the  Juniata 
to  be  his  helpmate,  and  who,  like  her  unfortunate  prede- 
cessor, was  willing  to  live  in  a  wilderness  away  from  all 
other  human  habitation.  He  frankly  told  her  of  his 
former  trouble,  assuring  her  that  he  would  never  leave 
her  out  of  his  sight.  But  the  bride  had  been  brought  up 
in  an  Indian  country,  and  was  as  fearless  as  her  hus- 
band. Still  as  the  bridegroom  did  not  care  to  risk  a 
second  tragedy,  he  managed  to  keep  close  to  her  day 
and  night. 

On  the  anniversary  of  their  six  months  of  happy 
marriage  they  were  returning  from  a  huckleberry  pick- 
ing expedition.  It  was  a  clear,  crisp  evening  in  Sep- 
tember, with  only  a  few  crickets  daring  to  chirp  in  the 
face  of  the  frost  promised  for  the  night.  The  young 
couple  were  walking  hand  in  hand,  smiling  upon  each 


288  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

other  as  lovers  should,  when  suddenly  an  arrow  sped 
out  of  the  forest,  piercing  the  bride's  jugular  vein. 
There  was  a  great  rush  of  blood  and  the  girl  fell  to  the 
ground  and  expired.  The  dog  which  had  been  with 
them  had  been  caught  napping,  but  he  soon  took  the 
scent,  bounding  into  the  thickets  in  pursuit  of  the  hid- 
den murderer. 

For  once  in  his  life  Tom  Fausett  was  panic  stricken. 
Robbed  of  his  second  bride  under  such  cruel  circum- 
stances, he  was  dazed  at  the  terrible  extent  of  the  dis- 
aster. Much  as  he  would  have  longed  to  avenge  her 
death  by  sending  a  bullet  into  the  miscreant's  brain,  he 
feared  to  leave  the  body  lest  it  be  carried  away  in  some 
mysterious  manner. 

Picking  up  the  limp  remains  as  tenderly  as  he  could, 
he  carried  it  a  distance  of  three  miles  to  his  cabin. 
There  he  laid  the  fair  body  in  the  bunk,  which  so  lately 
had  been  the  bridal  bower.  Then  he  knelt  beside  the 
couch,  weeping  as  if  his  great  manly  heart  would 
break.  About  midnight  the  hound  returned,  weak  and 
covered  with  foam.  It  hung  its  head,  and  with  its  tail 
between  its  legs  slunk  into  the  building,  crouching  be- 
fore the  fire  with  an  expression  which  seemed  to  say 
that  it  had  been  "foiled." 

All  night  long  the  stricken  man  sat  by  the  corpse,  in 
darkness,  save  the  glow  of  a  few  coals  in  the  hearth. 
When  the  morning  dawned  he  went  outside  and  dug  a 
deep  grave  at  one  comer  of  the  tiny  garden.  Then  he 
carried  the  body  out  and  lowered  it  into  its  tomb. 

After  that  devolved  upon  him  the  unpleasant  duty 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  289 

to  go  over  to  the  Juniata  and  break  the  news  to  the 
girl's  family.  It  would  be  hard  to  explain,  this  mys- 
terious loss  of  a  second  wife.  There  might  be  many 
evil-minded  enough  to  intimate  that  he  had  killed  the 
woman.  As  he  walked  along  with  hanging  head  the 
thought  which  had  tortured  him  during  the  weary 
watches  of  the  night  came  over  him  again.  Why  was 
he  singled  out  to  be  so  persecuted?  He  who  had  never 
harmed  an  Indian  by  word  or  deed  was  worse  treated 
by  the  redskins  than  their  most  relentless  foes.  Per- 
haps, he  reasoned,  it  was  a  case  of  mistaken  identity; 
he  was  being  pilloried  for  some  other  backwoodsman's 
sins. 

When  he  reached  the  cabin  of  his  wife's  parents  it 
took  a  world  of  courage  to  break  the  news.  His  worst 
fears  were  realized.  The  excitable  north  of  Ireland 
couple  berated  the  youth  for  taking  such  poor  care  of 
his  wife,  and  a  half-witted  son  rose  up  from  a  couch 
declaring  that  Fausett  had  killed  her  himself. 

"You  murdered  your  first  wife,  you  did,"  he 
shrieked,  "and  now  you  are  tired  of  your  second  and 
have  fixed  her  the  same  way." 

The  stricken  husband  kept  his  temper  admirably, 
but  he  longed  to  fly  at  the  thoat  of  the  evil-minded 
idiot.  He  had  turned  his  back  to  speak  further  to  the 
old  folks  when  the  crazy  man  picked  up  a  heavy 
wooden  bench  and  swinging  it  with  superhuman 
strength  brought  it  down  on  Fausett's  head.  The 
wretched  man  fell  to  the  deal  floor  and  lay  uncon- 
scious.   He  was  in  that  condition  for  a  week,  and  when 


290  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

he  woke  up  he  was  lying  in  the  straw  in  the  old 
couple's  barn.  Evidently  he  had  been  put  out  there  to 
die.  Bracing  himself  together  with  a  mighty  effort,  he 
climbed  out  of  the  mow  and  into  the  sunlight.  Seeing 
no  one  in  the  barnyard  or  about  the  cabin,  except  a 
mangy  hound,  he  climbed  the  worm  fence,  and  struck 
out  aimlessly  into  the  forest.  The  further  he  walked 
the  clearer  his  mentality  asserted  itself.  He  learned 
his  course  of  direction  from  the  sun,  altering  his  route 
so  as  to  travel  west.  He  wanted  to  get  out  of  the 
cursed  region  where  so  much  misfortune  had  beset  him. 
Toward  evening  he  came  to  an  Indian  trail,  which  he 
decided  to  follow.  It  would  lead  him  to  a  trapper's 
cabin,  or  even  an  Indian's  camp,  where  he  might  get 
some  food,  or  directions  how  to  get  out  of  the  valleys 
tributary  to  the  Juniata. 

Evening  set  in,  but  he  saw  no  sign  of  life  except  night 
hawks  flitting  above  his  head.  In  the  starless  darkness 
the  wolves  began  to  howl.  Some  of  them  came  dan- 
gerously close  to  him,  but  he  was  not  afraid.  When 
he  stopped  to  rest  his  head  ached,  so  he  decided  to  keep 
moving  until  he  reached  some  human  habitation. 

It  was  nearly  mid-day  on  the  day  following  when  he 
came  in  sight  of  a  small  log  cabin.  It  was  in  a  glade, 
with  a  clear  stream  purling  close  to  it.  The  giant  pines 
and  hemlocks  about  it  had  all  been  girdled  and  stood 
gaunt  and  barkless,  like  horrid  skeletons  along  the 
creekside.  There  was  a  nice  patch  of  corn  and  buck- 
wheat among  the  slashings,  evidently  the  settlers  were 
industrious  folks  and  aspired  to  a  more  permanent  ex- 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  291 

istence  than  hunting  or  trapping.  As  he  neared  the 
cabin  a  pair  of  hounds,  chained  to  a  shed,  commenced 
barking.  The  door  opened  and  a  short  thick-set  man, 
bearded  and  wearing  a  backwoodsman's  suit  of  buck- 
skin, emerged  and  gazed  up  the  path.  Fausett  quick- 
ened his  steps  and  was  soon  within  speaking  distance 
of  the  frontiersman. 

The  men  exchanged  friendly  greetings,  and  Fausett 
noted  that  the  settler  spoke  in  broken  English,  much 
like  the  Low  Dutchmen  whom  he  occasionally  met 
with  in  the  eastern  part  of  the  province.  The  Dutch- 
man asked  him  his  name  and  where  he  was  going  to, 
and  he  replied  by  saying  that  he  was  on  a  prospecting 
tour  to  the  Allegheny  River.  In  return  the  Dutchman 
said  that  his  name  was  Jacob  Reningher,  that  he  had 
been  born  in  New  Jersey,  of  Holland  parentage,  but 
had  moved  into  the  wilderness  three  years  before  with 
his  wife  and  five  children.  He  invited  Fausett  to  re- 
main with  him  over  night,  as  he  liked  to  meet  strangers 
with  whom  he  could  discuss  the  outside  world.  He 
explained  that  his  clearing  was  located  near  the  head- 
ing of  Shaver's  Creek,  which  was  probably  twenty-five 
miles  in  a  straight  line  from  where  Faucett  had  been 
attacked  by  his  crazy  brother-in-law. 

Fausett  liked  the  spot,  and  resolved  to  tarry  there 
a  while.  First  of  all  he  made  a  clean  breast  of  his  re- 
cent adventures  to  the  pioneer;  he  could  deal  openly 
after  that,  with  nothing  concealed.  Dinner  was  over 
when  he  arrived,  but  Reningher  brought  his  guest  into 
the  house,  introducing  him  to  his  wife  and  daughters. 


292  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

They  were  an  open-faced,  healthy  looking  fam- 
ily, but  Fausett's  eyes  lingered  longest  on  the  eldest 
girl,  Annie,  a  very  buxom  young  miss  of  fifteen,  who 
was  destined  to  live  in  history  as  his  "little  Dutch  wife." 
She  was  an  uncommonly  pretty  and  refined  looking 
girl  to  be  met  with  in  such  an  out-of-the-way  spot.  Her 
features  were  clear  cut,  which  the  poutiness  to  the  lips, 
indicating  a  strongly  developed  love  nature,  could 
not  destroy.  Her  eyes  were  full  and  dark  blue,  more 
like  Irish  eyes,  her  hair  chestnut  brown,  her  complexion 
clear,  her  figure,  though  inclining  to  plumpness,  was 
well  turned,  the  ankles  being  particularly  small.  She 
returned  the  newcomer's  gaze  with  those  wide-open 
blue  eyes  in  such  a  way  that  he  lost  his  heart  com- 
pletely. 

Tom  Fausett,  in  the  language  of  the  frontier,  was 
a  "pretty  man."  About  thirty-three  years  of  age,  of 
medium  height,  slender  and  well  made,  he  had  a  fine 
long  nose,  deep-set  blue  eyes,  a  clean-cut  mouth,  a  crop 
of  light  brown  hair,  and  a  flowing  blonde  beard.  Ar- 
rayed even  in  his  tattered  deerskin  suit,  he  was  a  pic- 
turesque and  winning  figure;  the  handsomest  man  she 
had  ever  seen,  thought  Annie  Reningher. 

The  relations  between  guest  and  host  early  becoming 
so  harmonious,  Fausett  offered  his  services  to  help  clear 
ground,  only  asking  his  board  in  return.  If  his  host 
would  loan  him  a  rifle  he  would  help  with  the  larder, 
as  he  was  a  dead  shot,  he  said.  The  offer  was  ac- 
cepted, so  the  young  man  settled  down  to  an  idealistic 
existence  in  the  little  cabin  at  the  head  of  Shaver's 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  293 

Creek.  His  romance  with  the  buxom  Annie  progressed 
apace.  They  were  not  long  in  declaring  their  mutual 
admiration,  or  settling  a  date  to  be  married.  They 
would  travel  to  Carlisle  in  the  spring,  meet  some  of  the 
bridegroom's  relatives,  who  were  people  of  standing, 
and  have  the  ceremony  performed  there  by  a  Presby- 
terian pastor. 

They  often  discussed  the  mysterious  fate  of  his 
earlier  wives,  but  could  arrive  at  no  satisfactory  con- 
clusions. Fausett  suggested  that  they  abandon  the 
frontier  after  the  wedding  and  live  in  the  Cumberland 
Valley,  so  as  to  absolutely  avoid  a  repetition  of  the 
past  tragedies.  But  the  fair  Annie  said  vehemently 
that  she  was  not  afraid,  she  would  live  anywhere  with 
him,  but  preferred  the  outposts  of  civilization.  But 
they  decided  to  move  out  of  the  watershed  of  the 
Juniata  to  the  Allegheny,  where  in  the  vicinity  of 
Shannopin's  Town,  now  Pittsburg,  there  were  some 
nice  stretches  of  bottomlands  that  as  yet.  had  not  been 
touched  by  the  white  settlers. 

But  before  the  romance  proceeded  further  a  holo- 
caust engulfed  the  happy  family.  Jake  Reningher,  his 
two  boys  and  Fausett  went  on  a  bear  hunt  to  the  Seven 
Mountains;  it  was  in  the  month  of  March,  when  the 
red  bears  sometimes  emerged  from  their  caves.  They 
deemed  it  safe  to  leave  the  good  wife  and  her  three 
daughters,  including  Annie,  to  "mind  the  house." 
Nothing  could  possibly  happen,  there  had  not  been  an 
Indian  in  the  neighborhood  in  months.  The  hunt  was 
a  great  success,  six  monster  bears  were  secured  with 


294  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

pelts  as  bright  and  shiny  as  red  foxes,  hides  which 
would  sell  for  "big  money"  at  Carlisle. 

The  hunters  were  gone  a  week.  When  they  re- 
turned they  found  the  cabin  door  open  and  half  off 
its  hinges.  The  fire  was  out,  the  house  in  darkness. 
The  anxious  men  hastened  inside.  As  their  eyes  be- 
came accustomed  to  the  gloom  they  saw  a  pitiful  sight. 
On  a  bunk,  side  by  side,  lay  the  pioneer's  wife  and  two 
daughters,  bound  and  gagged.  Fausett  looked  about 
for  Annie,  his  Annie,  but  she  was  nowhere  to  be  found. 
Quickly  the  frenzied  borderers  loosed  the  gags  and 
thongs,  releasing  the  unhappy  women.  But  they  were 
unconscious  from  cold  and  starvation,  and  were  re- 
vived with  difficulty. 

The  mother,  after  many  unsuccessful  efforts,  man- 
aged to  tell  the  dreadful  story.  Four  days  before  a 
band  of  five  masked  Indians  had  come  to  the  cabin, 
while  the  family  was  at  dinner.  Their  leader,  the  big- 
gest, blackest  and  most  hideous  looking  savage  that 
they  had  ever  seen,  ordered  the  women  to  get  up  from 
table  and  turn  the  meal  over  to  them.  This  they  were 
glad  to  do,  and  they  waited  on  the  redskins  while  they 
ate.  Then  at  a  signal  from  the  big  chief,  the  Indians 
quickly  arose  and  each  seized  one  of  the  women. 
They  held  them  tightly  while  the  chief  bound  them. 
They  had  all  been  too  frightened  to  cry  out,  but  after 
the  binding  they  were  gagged.  The  mother  and  the 
two  younger  daughters  were  rolled  on  the  bunk,  while 
the  chief  picked  up  Annie  as  if  she  were  a  bag  of  corn, 
and  threw  her  over  his  shoulder.     Then,  followed  by 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  295 

his  band,  he  left  the  cabin  and  was  not  seen  again.  No 
violence  was  attempted,  but  the  women  would  have 
died  of  starvation  if  the  rescuers  had  not  arrived  when 
they  did.  As  it  was  the  presence  of  a  small  jug  of  rum 
in  Jake  Reningher's  coat  pocket  was  the  real  lifesaver. 
By  a  hot  fire  the  overwrought  nerves  and  aching 
bodies  were  restored  to  normal,  while  a  good  dinner 
of  bear  steaks  was  the  finishing  touch  in  the  cure.  But 
all  were  sorrowing  over  the  kidnapping  of  Annie,  espe- 
cially Fausett,  who  was  this  time  bereaved  before  his 
wedding  day.  With  a  great  outburst  of  grief  he  swore 
that  he  would  find  the  missing  girl  and  restore  her  to 
her  family,  even  if  it  took  him  until  the  end  of  his  life. 
He  believed  that  clues  were  about  the  cabin.  Going 
outside  he  carefully  examined  the  soft  earth  for  foot- 
prints. If  he  found  only  one  he  would  know  in  which 
direction  the  savages  had  carried  their  victim.  It  did 
not  take  him  long  to  find  a  footprint.  The  Indians  had 
been  very  careful  to  step  on  solid  turf  or  on  stones,  but 
there  was  one  impression,  of  a  very  large  moccasined 
foot,  in  a  spot  of  thawed  earth.  It  was  headed  for  the 
North. 

Tom  Fausett,  knowing  the  Indian  paths  like  a  school- 
boy does  the  war  map  of  Europe,  at  once  figured  out 
that  the  victim  would  be  taken  over  the  Onondaga 
trail  into  Canada.  The  day  was  well-nigh  spent,  but 
the  dauntless  frontiersman  insisted  on  starting  on  his 
long  journey.  He  secured  the  best  rifle,  a  stock  of  am- 
munition, as  well  as  a  bag  of  provisions. 

"I  promise  to  bring  her  back  if  she  still  lives,"  were 


296  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

his  words  of  parting,  uttered  as  he  shook  each  member 
of  the  stricken  family  by  the  hand. 

"God  bless  you,  God  bless  you,"  were  the  echoes 
he  heard  as  he  hurried  up  the  lonely  glade. 

He  found  a  path  which  he  imagined  the  miscre- 
ants must  have  taken,  and  despite  the  darkness  he  was 
able  to  follow  it  until  daylight.  He  followed  it  into 
Nittany  Valley  and  through  Nittany  to  the  West 
Branch  of  the  Susquehanna,  where  he  passed  the 
flourishing  Indian  village  on  Monsey  Town  Flats,  near 
where  Lock  Haven  now  stands.  He  did  not  care  to 
rzsk  entering  the  settlem.ent  and  askmg  questions  boldly, 
but  followed  the  south  bank  of  the  river,  hoping  to  meet 
a  stray  Indian  who  might  converse  with  him.  But  he 
saw  only  warlike  braves  at  a  distance,  and  he  con- 
cluded that  it  was  just  as  well — his  mind  was  made  up 
that  he  would  overtake  the  runaways  on  the  Onondaga 
trail,  if  at  all. 

The  valley  of  the  Otzinachson  was  very  beautiful, 
even  in  its  brown,  leafless  garb  of  March,  and  Fausett 
wished  that  he  was  passing  down  it  on  a  happier  er- 
rand. At  the  lower  end  of  what  is  now  Wayne 
Township,  Clinton  County,  where  the  river  coils  close 
to  the  Bald  Eagle  Mountains,  he  ascended  the  ridge, 
following  a  path  along  the  summits  until  he  came  to  a 
point  opposite  the  mouth  of  Loyalsock  Creek. 

He  had  "kept  himself  going"  by  eating  sparingly  of 
dried  apples  and  jerked  venison  from  his  pack,  but  that 
being  v/ell-nigh  exhausted,  he  resolved  to  beg  a  dinner 
from  the  inmates  of  the  thriving  Indian  village  of  Os- 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  297 

tonwackin,  which  crowned  the  river  banks  at  the  con- 
fluence of  Loyalsock  and  the  West  Branch. 

Descending  the  mountain,  and  reaching  the  shore,  he 
was  about  to  call  "over"  to  the  Indians  when  he  espied 
a  neat  canoe  moored  nearby.  In  an  impulsive  moment 
he  jumped  in  it,  and  soon  worked  himself  across  the 
swift  current.  A  number  of  Indians  were  on  the  beach 
to  receive  him. 

An  old  man  among  them,  bent  almost  double  with 
age  and  rheumatism,  who  seemed  to  be  some  kind  of 
soothsayer,  called  out:  "We  know  what  you  are  here 
for  before  you  come;  your  lady  was  stolen  from  you, 
you  are  seeking  her." 

Fausett,  not  knowing  the  best  policy  to  deny  or 
affirm,  stood  abashed  before  such  a  display  of  prevision. 

"Don't  you  stay  here,"  continued  the  sage;  "follow 
the  path.     You  can  overtake  your  lady." 

The  young  man  was  ravenously  hungry,  yet  the 
prospect  of  rescuing  Annie  conquered  hts  physical  ap- 
petite. He  was  about  to  inquire  the  way  to  the  north- 
ern trail  when  a  bright  looking  young  halfbreed 
stepped  up  to  him,  saying  in  a  decided  French  accent: 
"I  would  advise  against  your  following  the  Onondaga 
trail  just  now,  as  a  terrible  snow  storm  is  raging  up 
there.     You  cannot  possibly  make  through." 

Fausett,  who  did  not  know  if  this  was  a  kindly 
meant  hint  or  a  subterfuge,  thanked  the  young  fellow, 
and  for  a  moment  stood  on  the  beach  undecided.  The 
young  halfbreed  was  none  other  than  Henry  Montour, 
a  son  of  the  celebrated  Madame  Montour,  who  had 


298  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

recently  left  Ostonwackin  to  reside  on  a  snug  island 
near  Shamokin.  He  invited  Fausett  into  his  lodge 
house  to  partake  of  some  refreshment.  Montour  plied 
his  guest  with  rum,  which  loosened  his  tongue,  and  he 
started  to  tell  of  the  loss  of  his  affianced  wife.  The 
halfbreed's  face  darkened,  an  inward  struggle  was  go- 
ing on.  He  hated  to  be  a  talebearer,  yet  it  seemed  un- 
just to  allow  the  stolen  girl  to  be  carried  away  without 
a  protest.  Finally,  after  much  hesitation,  he  spoke. 
He  said  that  he  had  seen  the  girl  and  her  captors  go 
through  the  outskirts  of  the  village  that  very  morning. 
Her  captor  was  Toconontie,  that  terrible  Indian  known 
to  the  settlers  as  the  Black  Prince.  The  impression 
made  on  him  was  that  she  was  a  woman  of  quality,  she 
was  being  handled  so  carefully.  Probably  she  was  to 
be  sent  to  Canada,  where  so  many  beautiful  girls  stolen 
from  the  white  people  were  transported  to  be  held  as 
hostages. 

A  blizzard  was  raging  along  the  Loyalsock;  it  would 
be  a  foolish  act  to  attack  the  Black  Prince  and  his 
band  single-handed,  but  if  he  wished  to  rescue  the  girl, 
now  was  the  chance.  Henry  Montour  offered  to  act 
as  guide  for  the  first  day's  journey,  when  he  could  de- 
cide whether  or  not  he  wished  to  continue  in  the  face 
of  the  terrific  storms.  The  Loyalsock  Valley  through 
w^hich  the  path  led  was  heavily  timbered,  the  Indians 
called  the  creek  the  "lost"  or  "bewildered  stream." 
Yet  this  stream  had  to  be  crossed  frequently,  which 
kept  them  wet  up  to  the  waist,  and  shivering  with  cold. 
The  blizzard  was  still  raging  in  the  spot  where  they 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  299 

made  their  bed  of  spruce  boughs  for  the  night.  Though 
they  built  this  camp  fire  under  some  branching  hem- 
locks, it  had  sunk  three  feet  into  the  snow  by  morning. 
This  valley,  so  Montour  said,  was  ruled  over  by  an  evil 
spirit  called  Oktoneh,  the  God  of  Disaster,  who  was 
always  represented  with  a  raven  on  his  shoulder. 

After  a  meagre  breakfast  of  cold  cornmeal  and  cold 
beans,  Fausett  was  ready  to  start  off  alone,  but  the  gen- 
erous halfbreed  offered  to  accompany  him  one  day  fur- 
ther. That  evening  they  came  to  the  head  of  the  val- 
ley, where  they  found  two  skulls  securely  fastened  on 
poles.  These,  Montour  said,  were  all  that  was  left  of 
two  Iroquois  warriors,  who,  while  returning  from  a  war 
excursion  to  the  south,  encamped  there  one  snowy  night 
with  two  southern  Indians  as  captives.  These  prisoners 
loosened  their  bonds  during  the  night  through  the  help 
of  the  terrible  demon  Oktoneh,  and  after  killing  their 
captors  while  they  slept,  took  possession  of  their  arms 
and  returned  to  their  home  in  Carolina.  But  despite 
the  dismal  memories  of  the  place,  Fausett  and  his  guide 
camped  there  for  the  night.  By  the  next  morning  the 
storm  had  abated,  but  the  snow  was  tracked  with  the 
footprints  of  many  panthers  and  wolves,  showing  who 
their  neighbors  during  the  night  had  been. 

Montour  now  was  able  to  show  his  friend  the  correct 
route  to  Onondaga.  But  he  advised  him  to  stop  at 
Tioga  and  inquire  of  the  route  taken  by  the  renegades. 
It  was  the  last  day  of  March,  and  the  warm  sun  melted 
the  snow  very  fast.  Fausett  made  excellent  progress, 
as  the  path  was  well  blazed.     On  the  evening  of  the 


300  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

second  day  after  leaving  the  guide  he  came  in  sight  of 
the  Indian  village  of  Tioga  Point,  at  the  confluence  of 
the  Chemung  and  Susquehanna  Rivers.  There  he  was 
pleasantly  received  by  the  Indians,  but  he  was  not  able 
to  procure  any  definite  information  concerning  the  lost 
girl.  He  was  told  that  the  Black  Prince  was  at  Onon- 
daga, he  could  discuss  the  matter  with  him  direct. 
Meeting  an  Onondaga  Indian  named  Ta-wa-ga-ret, 
who  had  once  been  a  guide  to  Conrad  Weiser,  he  in- 
vited him  to  act  as  companion  for  the  rest  of  the  jour- 
ney. The  redman  acquiesced,  so  they  started  early  the 
next  morning.  On  the  way  the  Indian  told  Fausett 
some  of  the  characteristics  of  the  Black  Prince,  of  his 
austerity,  his  haughtiness,  his  hatred  of  the  white  race 
in  general.  He  would  be  a  hard  man  to  face  on  such 
an  errand,  thought  the  pioneer,  but  he  was  determined 
to  leave  no  stone  unturned. 

After  three  days  of  tedious  travel  they  reached  the 
castle  of  the  Onondagas.  A  guard  at  the  outskirts  said 
that  the  Black  Prince  was  at  home  and  offered  to 
escort  Fausett  into  his  presence.  Ta-wa-ga-ret,  sus- 
pecting that  there  was  something  unpleasant  in  the 
white  man's  mission,  became  frightened  and,  without 
saying  good-bye,  disappeared  in  the  forest. 

Accompanied  only  by  the  strange  Indian  guard, 
Fausett  was  ushered  into  the  presence  of  the  great  To- 
conontie.  Surely  the  Black  Prince  looked  his  name. 
In  the  first  place  he  was  a  very  tall,  powerful  man. 
His  chest  was  very  full  and  he  had  brawny  limbs.  His 
complexion  was  very  dark,  almost  as  black  as  that  of  a 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  301 

West  India  Negro.  He  greeted  the  white  man  pleas- 
antly, asking  him  to  state  his  errand.  Fausett  replied 
that  he  had  lost  his  affianced  bride,  that  he  had  heard 
she  had  been  taken  by  mistake  for  some  one  else  by  the 
Black  Prince  and  his  followers.  The  Indian  asked  him 
to  name  the  locality  from  where  the  girl  had  been 
stolen,  to  which  he  replied  that  it  was  from  Shaver's 
Creek,  in  Central  Pennsylvania,  where  her  parents' 
home  was  located.  On  hearing  this  the  Black  Prince 
scowled.  Then  in  concise  language  he  stated  that  he 
had  not  been  in  Pennsylvania  in  two  years,  that  if  the 
girl  had  been  stolen  it  was  by  some  other  party,  that  he 
was  tired  of  being  made  the  target  of  white  men's  fajse 
accusations. 

Fausett  saw  that  it  would  be  time  wasted  to  discuss 
the  subject  further,  so  he  thanked  the  chief  for  listening 
to  him  and  withdrew.  As  he  was  re-entering  the  forest, 
trying  to  work  out  some  plan  of  action,  he  met  Ta-wa- 
ga-ret,  to  whom  he  told  the  entire  story.  The  Indian, 
who  was  not  overly  fond  of  the  Black  Prince,  advised 
him  to  go  at  once  to  Oswego,  the  populous  lake  port 
of  the  Iroquois,  where  most  of  the  captives,  bound  for 
Canada  were  transported  in  boats  across  Lake  Foun- 
tenac,  now  called  Ontario.  He  offered  to  guide  Fau- 
sett to  the  lake  front,  and  they  again  journeyed  on  to- 
gether. At  Oswego,  where  they  found  a  prosperous 
Indian  trading  settlement,  they  learned  that  four  In- 
dians with  three  white  prisoners,  two  men  and  a  girl, 
had  lately  embarked  for  Canada.  Ta-wa-ga-ret,  not 
caring  to  go  any  further,  turned  Fausett  over  to  several 


302  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

members  of  the  powerful  Canadian  tribe  of  Zistage- 
chroanu,  who  were  returning  from  a  trading  expedition. 
With  these  tribesmen  he  crossed  the  lake  in  their  bateau. 

On  the  Canadian  shore  his  hardships  began  in  ear- 
nest. For  months  he  tramped  and  alternately  lost  and 
found  his  way,  he  starved  and  struggled,  he  climbed, 
he  swam,  he  searched,  he  questioned,  until  at  length  he 
got  on  the  track  of  the  missing  Annie  Reningher.  She 
was  far  in  the  north,  with  a  number  of  other  captives, 
on  the  banks  of  a  remote  lake  called  Mistassini.  To 
there  the  intrepid  young  man,  after  many  trials  and 
perils,  forced  his  way.  He  lurked  about  the  outskirts 
of  the  camp  for  weeks,  like  a  timber  wolf,  until  he 
caught  sight  of  her.  She  seemed  happy,  she  certainly 
looked  well,  but  had  to  work  very  hard. 

He  waited  a  month  longer  before  the  chance  came 
to  rescue  her.  On  that  occasion  she  was  left  alone  ex- 
cept for  the  children  and  old  squaws.  Like  a  wolf  he 
rushed  into  the  campground;  with  the  butt  end  of  his 
rifle  he  knocked  the  old  squaws  senseless;  the  frightened 
children  scurried  away;  he  seized  his  beloved  Annie 
by  the  hand,  and  ran  back  into  the  trackless  gloom. 

At  "top  speed"  they  hurried  over  hill  and  dale  to  a 
swift  river,  the  Gatincan,  where  the  young  lover  had 
a  canoe  in  waiting. 

Once  safely  in  it,  and  on  practically  the  homeward 
journey,  the  overjoyed  girl  calmed  down  enough  to  tell 
the  story  of  her  captivity.  It  was  the  Black  Prince 
who  had  led  the  band  which  carried  her  away,  evi- 
dently she  was  supposed  to  be  some  one  of  note.     At 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  303 

Tioga  Point  he  had  presented  her  to  a  band  of  chiefs 
who  were  in  council  there,  but  they  shook  their  heads. 
She  was  not  the  person  they  wanted.  But  rather  than 
turn  her  loose,  Toconontie  gave  her  over  to  some  of  his 
followers,  who  were  going  to  Oswego,  where  they 
traded  her  for  six  squaws  to  some  Canadian  Indians. 
Her  beauty  and  the  garbled  story  that  she  was  a 
woman  of  importance,  perhaps  the  daughter  of  one  of 
the  proprietors  of  Pennsylvania,  caused  her  to  be  well 
treated,  and  she  was  presumably  held  for  ransom  by  her 
new  owners. 

From  the  mouth  of  Gatincan  River  the  couple  made 
their  way  down  to  Lake  Ontario,  in  the  Canadian 
wilds,  crossing  over  to  La  Famine  at  the  mouth  of  Sal- 
mon River,  in  New  York.  Fearing  to  return  over  the 
Onondaga  trail,  they  reappeared  in  civilization  at  Al- 
bany, wending  their  way  from  there  down  the  Hudson 
and  back  to  the  Juniata. 

It  was  in  March,  1  746,  when  Annie  Reningher  was 
carried  away.  It  was  just  four  years  later  when  Tom 
Fausett  restored  her  to  her  happy  parents  at  their  home 
on  Shaver's  Creek.  The  young  couple  had  been  mar- 
ried in  New  York,  and  now  the  next  step  was  to  secure 
a  home.  Fausett,  who  was  very  proud  of  his  "Little 
Dutch  wife,"  as  he  called  her,  first  took  her  on  a  wed- 
ding jaunt  to  the  Cumberland  Valley,  where  they  spent 
a  month  at  the  cabin  of  his  brother  Joe,  in  sight  of 
Parnall's  Knob,  the  brother  Joe  whose  ill-treatment  by 
General  Braddock  was  the  cause  of  Tom  Fausett's 
slaying  the  august  Britisher  five  years  later. 


304  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

It  was  a  happy  visit,  and  at  its  conclusion  Joe  Fau- 
sett  accompanied  the  3^oung  couple  across  the  moun- 
tains to  the  Beaver  Dams  in  Canoe  Valley,  in  what  is 
now  Blair  County,  where  an  uncle  of  the  Fausetts  the 
year  previously  had  abandoned  an  ample  clearing 
which  would  make  Tom  and  the  little  Dutch  wife  an 
ideal  home.  They  would  be  the  only  residents  in  the 
valley — they  were  trilling  with  destiny  again — but  the 
soil  was  rich,  the  water  good,  the  game  superlatively 
abundant,  especially  beavers,  which  were  profitable  to 
trap.  Some  well-to-do  relatives  in  the  Cumberland 
Valley  had  presented  the  young  people  with  a  cow  and 
some  pigs  and  sheep,  so  they  were  well  equipped  to  be- 
gin life  on  the  frontier. 

Joe  Fausett  accompanied  them  to  help  put  things  to 
rights,  remaining  with  them  for  nearly  two  months.  It 
was  the  evening  after  he  had  departed,  again  a  crisp, 
cool  evening  in  late  September,  when  the  brezes  swayed 
the  reddened  garlands  of  the  Virginia  creeper,  and  the 
corners  of  the  clearing  were  banked  with  the  rich  ma- 
roons of  the  sumacs,  that  the  joyous  couple  were  driv- 
ing their  sheep  out  of  the  field  into  the  log  stockade. 
It  was  necessary  to  keep  the  animals  in  such  a  place,  as 
the  wolves  killed  them  in  open  barnyards  before  the 
eyes  of  their  owners.  Tom  Fausett  was  in  the  act  of 
taking  down  the  heavy  gate — it  was  sixteen  feet  high — 
to  allow  the  sheep  to  enter,  when  the  crack  of  a  rifle 
rang  out  in  the  afternoon  stillness.  The  little  Dutch 
wife  uttered  a  cry  of  pain  and  fell  to  the  ground.  The 
sheep  bells  tinkled  convulsively,  then  all  was  silence. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  305 

Tom  Fausett  dropped  the  heavy  gate  and  seized  his 
rifle,  running  in  the  direction  from  which  he  imagined 
the  shot  had  com.e.  How  far  he  ran,  in  what  directions 
he  ran,  he  was  never  able  to  tell.  He  soon  became 
unable  to  know  what  he  was  doing  or  where  he  was  go- 
ing, all  was  automatic,  so  terrible  was  his  grief.  A 
party  of  trappers  found  him.  wandering  aimlessy  at  the 
mouth  of  Fox  Run.  He  could  not  tell  his  name,  or  the 
location  of  his  home. 

All  he  would  say,  and  he  repeated  it  over  and  over 
again,  "They  have  killed  my  little  Dutch  wife." 

It  was  not  until  he  had  been  led  across  the  moun- 
tains to  Fort  Campbell,  at  the  mouth  of  Licking  Creek, 
where  a  small  settlement  existed,  that  he  was  recog- 
nized by  a  boyhood  friend,  Michael  Castner,  and  grad- 
ually his  story  was  drawn  from  him.  A  party  was  sent 
back  to  Canoe  Valley,  and  the  body  of  the  little  Dutch 
wife  found  and  given  decent  burial.  The  Reningher 
family  was  notified,  and  came  over  the  mountains  and 
brought  the  stricken  husband  back  to  their  comfortable 
home  on  Shaver's  Creek. 

But  this  extraordinary  run  of  misfortune  left  an  in- 
delible impress  on  Tom  Fausett.  He  could  not  under- 
stand why  he  should  have  lost  three  beloved  wives,  why 
all  his  plans  to  found  a  home  and  be  a  respected  citizen 
should  be  thwarted.  When  he  was  able,  he  went  back 
to  Cumberland  County,  where  he  supported  himself  as 
a  farmhand,  and  was  looked  upon  as  a  man  whose 
heart  was  broken,  whose  soul  was  dead.  It  was  to 
escape  these  torturing  memories  of  the  past  that  led  to 


306  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

his  enlisting  under  General  Braddock,  hoping  to  find 
a  new  interest  for  his  overtaxed  nerves  in  the  stir  of  a 
campaign. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  307 


XXL 

AARON  HALL. 

THE  LION  HUNTER  OF  THE  JUNIATA. 

**T"^IGHTEEN  miles  to  Philipsburg,"  so  read  the 
r^  faded  signboard  on  the  broad  highway  at  the 
outskirts  of  Unionville,  that  cold,  blowy  March 
evening.  Out  of  the  cozy  village,  with  the  lamplight 
beginning  to  glow  in  the  cottage  windows,  the  road  led 
through  a  region  of  broad  fields,  and  gradualy  ascend- 
ing toward  the  gigantic  Allegheny  Mountains,  which 
seemed  to  cut  the  setting  sun  in  twain,  off  there  to  the 
west.  Five  miles  more  would  have  to  be  traversed  be- 
fore the  former  home  of  the  lion  hunter  of  the  Juniata 
would  be  reached,  five  miles  up  grade,  and  the  chilly 
night  was  falling  fast.  There  was  a  cheerlessness  to 
the  landscape  that  betokened  the  last  phase  of  Nature's 
sleep,  before  spring's  awakening  softened  the  hard  lines 
of  hill  and  dale  into  a  smilmg  aspect.  Huddled  in  the 
corners  of  frozen  barnyards  or  under  the  eaves  of  build- 
ings were  little  flocks  of  sheep,  or  a  few  cows,  their 
bells  chiming  dolefully. 

The  bleak  farmhouses,  surrounded  by  bare  swaying 
trees  showed  not  a  light  in  their  tall  dark  windows; 
their  occupants  were  "early  to  bed"  to  escape  the  long 
evening's  dreariness  and  cold.     The  horses'  hoofs  now 


308  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

and  then  sent  out  sparks  when  they  struck  some  flinty 
stone  on  the  frozen  road.  On  some  remote,  dark  hill  a 
dog  would  bark  out  of  sheer  coldness  or  hunger.  A 
few  cabbage  heads  which  had  survived  the  snows  and 
frosts  stood  stolid  and  dead  in  the  empty  gardens. 
There  was  a  dreary,  long  drawn  out  moaning  of  the 
telephone  wires  along  the  road,  the  only  sound  in  the 
new  order  of  things  that  savors  of  the  ghostly  or  the 
long  ago. 

Long  as  the  drive  must  be,  the  expectancy  of  visiting 
the  haunts  of  the  great  hunter,  who  between  the  years 
of  1 845  and  1  870  was  the  slayer  of  half  a  hundred 
Pennsylvania  lions  or  panthers,  kept  the  imagination 
keyed  up  to  the  highest  pitch  of  wild,  strange  fancies. 
The  whole  atmosphere  of  that  glorious  past  seemed  to 
rise,  that  forest  world  of  witches,  outlaws,  lumbermen, 
sang-diggers,  barmaids,  traveling  preachers,  Indians, 
hunters,  that  world  of  virgin  pine,  of  rushing  streams, 
of  broad  rivers,  of  rafts,  of  wild  pigeons,  of  panthers, 
elks,  wolves,  wolvennes  and  fisher  foxes,  that  once  was 
Central  Pennsylvania,  but  now  though  only  half  way 
across  the  hill,  was  beyond  recall.  To  stop  at  the  home 
of  the  greatest  Pennsylvania  hunter  of  recent  years, 
who  had  lived  in  the  lifetime  of  men  still  young,  who 
had  hunted  and  trapped  and  lumbered  just  as  the 
heroes  of  long  ago  had  done,  to  feel  the  thrill  of  his 
recently  vanished  presence,  he  who  had  so  lately  gone 
across  the  hill,  was  a  privilege  and  an  opportunity  to 
be  embraced  and  appreciated. 

And  higher  and  higher  climbed  the  winding  road. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  309 

Colder  and  colder  it  became.  More  weird  grew  the 
moaning  of  the  telephone  wires.  More  often  did  the 
sparks  leap  out  from  the  horses'  heavy  feet.  Fiercer 
blew  the  winds  across  the  upland  pastures,  bending  al- 
most double  the  lone  umbrella-like  trees.  As  the  sky 
became  more  silvery,  the  outline  of  the  high  camel- 
backs  of  the  Allegheny  massif  became  bolder  and 
clearer,  with  every  dead  shivery  tree  silhouetted  against 
the  lofty  horizon.  Behind  those  elevated  ridges  it 
seemed  as  if  the  sun  would  have  to  sink  so  deep  that  it 
would  take  long  weary  days  to  rise  again! 

Back  on  a  broad,  high  knoll  stood  a  lonely  farm- 
house, its  windows  red  with  flame,  the  red  fire  of  the 
setting  sun.  Yet  against  the  sky  line  to  the  west  the 
red  disc  had  long  since  vanished.  All  this  while  not  a 
human  soul  was  met  with,  the  last  belated  traveler  had 
put  his  team  away,  and  casting  off  his  woolen  mitts  had 
found  sanctuary  by  some  ruddy  stove.  But  now  the 
very  top  of  the  hill  is  reached.  At  one  time  it  looked 
as  if  it  would  run  level  with  the  towering  Allegheny 
beyond  the  ravine,  but  from  the  hilltop  the  giant  moun- 
tain loomed  into  the  argent  sky,  belittling  alike  the  hills 
and  plains.  Then  came  another  sharp  bend  in  the  road 
beyond  which  rose  a  wooded  knoll,  a  grove  of  dense 
hemlock  trees.  A  dog's  raucous  barking  hinted  of 
some  one's  living  nigh,  the  formal  iron  fence  about  the 
grove  showed  that  it  hid  a  house  from  view. 

And  as  the  horses,  their  nostrils  sending  out  white 
breaths  like  hoar  frost,  stopped,  a  single  light  glim- 
mered through  a  window  and  out  through  the  dense 


310  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

hemlock  grove  to  the  windy  highway.  Then  came  the 
slamming  of  a  heavy  door,  the  patter  of  feet  on  stone 
pavements,  betokening  the  approach  of  some  one.  The 
trail  of  a  lantern's  glow  filtered  out  through  the  trees 
in  uncertain  rays;  soon  a  great  stalwart  figure,  bearded 
and  old-fashioned  looking,  stood  by  the  roadside  hold- 
ing aloft  his  light. 

A  genial  greeting  was  given,  a  cordial  invitation  to 
"come  in,"  words  like  these  are  sweet  to  half-chilled 
travelers,  and  are  never  declined  or  underestimated. 
The  gate  is  opened,  the  travelers  are  bade  to  enter, 
while  another  huge  figure  emerges  from  out  the  shadows 
and  leads  away  the  team  to  the  spacious  barns.  Half 
way  up  the  path  more  figures  emerge  from  the  shadows, 
men,  women,  children,  it  is  a  house  of  life,  of  youth, 
all  hidden  in  there  behind  the  evergreens. 

The  night  wind  blows,  "woo,  woo,  woo,"  around 
the  chimneys  and  eaves,  gale  chasing  gale  in  endless 
sport.  A.nd  then  a  good  view  of  the  house  is  disclosed 
by  just  one  angle  of  the  light,  a  great,  high,  gaunt 
manse,  built  of  bricks  mildewed  green  at  points  and 
gables,  high  windowed,  high  doored,  high  roofed,  high 
chimneyed,  as  if  in  keeping  with  the  lofty  castellated 
mountains  beyond.  A  bleak  house,  an  old  house,  a 
ghostly  house,  a  house  built  as  if  to  last  and  treasure 
memories.  Few  such  houses  exist  on  this  continent,  and 
those  that  do  should  only  be  approached  on  cold  windy 
nights. 

"Woo,  woo,  woo,"  swept  the  racing  winds  about 
chimney  pots  and  gables,  the  last  sound  as  the  great 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  311 

door  closed  upon  us,  and  we  were  within  the  ancient 
mansion.  In  keeping  with  the  exterior  was  the 
interior  of  this  very  unusual  house.  The  ceilings 
were  abnormally  high,  none  higher  in  a  castle  in 
Spain  or  a  chateau  in  the  south  of  France.  The 
woodwork,  made  from  trees  which  once  grew  on 
the  estate,  was  of  walnut,  dark,  mysterious  wal- 
nut, wainscoting,  doors,  closets,  staircases.  Room 
entered  into  room,  gallery  into  gallery,  there  seemed  no 
end  to  this  vast  house  on  the  desolate  hill  top.  Lights 
were  dim  and  not  a-plenty,  just  as  should  be  in  such  a 
house.  The  presence  of  an  unseen  world  took  posses- 
sion on  entering  there,  it  seemed  one  of  the  last  strong- 
holds of  the  empire  of  romance,  that  empire  which  has 
been  almost  battered  to  pieces  by  the  heavy  artillery 
of  the  modern  world  of  white  lights  and  confusion. 
But  here  the  lights  were  dim  and  soft,  and  nourishing 
to  the  eyes. 

All  the  denizens  of  this  old-time  citadel  were  kindly 
and  solicitous,  yet  dignified  and  sedate  as  befitted  dwell- 
ers amid  walnut  wainscoting  and  dark  colonial  furni- 
ture. As  supper  was  being  prepared  logs  were  thrown 
on  a  dying  fire  in  a  sitting  room,  a  cheery  yellow  flame 
rose  up,  while  the  shadows  pirouetted  on  the  tall  chairs 
of  this  imposing  home. 

Two  sons  of  the  mighty  hunter,  who  had  been  the 
master  of  this  estate,  regaled  the  guests  with  snatches  of 
their  father's  prowess  during  the  moments  while  waiting 
for  supper,  and  confirmed  many  incidents  previously 
heard  concerning  his  career.      Every  word  was  well 


312  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

worth  hearing,  well  worth  remembering.  Soon  the 
meal  was  announced,  and  the  party  adjourned  to  the 
lamp-lit  dining-room.  It  was  a  pleasant  genial  meal  in 
every  way,  restful  and  invigorating  from  the  travels  of 
the  day.  After  supper  the  youngest  son.  Miles  Hall, 
he  of  the  full  beard,  and  the  classic  features  like  Seneca 
the  Roman  poet,  smilingly  proclaimed  that  he  had  a 
surprise  to  show.  Taking  a  lantern,  he  disappeared 
up  a  dark  staircase. 

"He's  going  to  the  attic,"  whispered  his  pretty  little 
baby  niece,  and  anything  might  be  expected  to  come 
from  an  attic  in  such  a  house.  But  soon  came  the  re- 
turning footsteps  of  the  kindly  host,  slow,  careful  and 
steady  steps,  on  the  dark  stairs,  as  if  he  was  carrying 
som.ething  weighty.  And  sure  enough  he  was.  Sud- 
denly pushing  open  the  door  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  he 
stood  before  the  party  bearing  three  magnificent  hides 
of  Pennsylvania  lions. 

Spreading  them  out  on  the  floor  he  stated  that  these 
were  the  only  ones  left  in  the  house.  "We  did  have 
a  dozen  or  more  a  few  years  ago,"  he  went  on,  "but 
every  time  any  one  stopped  with  us  and  asked  for  one 
we  hated  to  refuse,  and  so  they  went,  one  by  one,  until 
these  three  are  all  that  are  left,  and  one  is  only  the  hide 
of  a  cub." 

But  they  were  splendid  relics  of  the  mighty  Nimrod, 
and  while  Miles  Hall  held  a  lantern  aloft,  some  of  the 
party  got  down  on  their  knees  and  closely  examined 
the  trophies  of  the  game  that  is  no  more,  thanks  to  the 
foolish  laxity  of  Pennsylvania  lawmakers.     Nowadays 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  313 

sport  lovers  must  travel  to  British  East  Africa,  thou- 
sands of  miles  across  seas  to  find  sport  which  once  was 
to  be  had  at  their  doors,  in  beautiful  Pennsylvania. 

The  coloring  of  the  panther  hides  was  curiously 
lovely.  The  blending  of  rich  orange  and  lemon  tints, 
its  shading  into  fulvous  and  fawn,  and  from  these  to 
greys  and  drabs,  the  hue  of  most  of  the  body,  would 
make  it  a  task  for  the  best  artists  to  follow.  The  hide 
of  the  cub  had  long  hair,  a  dark  chestnut  background 
with  yellowish  grey  spots.  It  must  have  been  a  pretty 
little  beast. 

"What  a  pity  father  killed  the  last  litter  of  cubs," 
said  one  of  the  great  hunter's  sons,  "he  might  have  kept 
them  as  well  as  not,  thus  saving  the  species  from  ex- 
tinction." 

By  the  rich  lamplight  the  hides  were  studied  again 
and  yet  again.  The  long  sleek  tails,  silvery  grey  in 
color,  with  tips  of  brown  longish  hair  at  the  ends,  the 
patch  of  white  at  the  throatlatches,.  the  inquisitive 
sharpness  of  the  long  ears  with  their  golden  tufts,  the 
hollow  sockets  which  once  had  sheltered  eyes  that  were 
the  terror  of  the  wilderness,  the  muscular  limbs,  the 
great  circular  paws  concealing  claws  that  left  their  in- 
effaceable marks  on  the  flanks  of  many  a  stag,  claws 
that  could  rip  bark  from  off  trees  as  if  it  was  fragile 
paper,  claws  that  in  death  agony  defied  even  man. 
Those  hides,  dried,  dead  and  stiff,  lying  there  on  that 
ancient  floor  in  themselves  were  the  epic  of  the  Penn- 
sylvania wilderness :  until  they  have  been  seen  that  epic 
cannot  be  attempted. 


314  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

Oh  the  proud,  free,  great  days  of  scope,  of  track- 
lessness,  of  Nature's  grandeur,  of  Nature's  triumph, 
that  those  dead  pelts  told!  Oh  the  thoughts  that  ran 
like  cold  chills  which  they  evoked!  Oh,  for  the  gift 
to  turn  those  thrilling  images  into  words!  Oh,  to  live 
a  life  as  grand,  as  carefree  as  was  the  lot  of  the  bold 
hunters  who  trailed  the  Pennsylvania  lion ! 

When  Aaron  Hall  was  a  boy  in  the  Tuckahoe  Val- 
ley on  the  Little  Juniata,  he  was  born  as  late  as  1 828, 
the  panthers  and  wolves  came  down  from  Riggle's, 
Bell's,  Homer's,  Tipton's  and  Juniata  Gaps,  and  men- 
aced the  flocks  in  the  back  pastures.  It  was  in  that 
wonderfully  scenic  vale,  with  the  Juniata  flowing 
through  it,  with  the  Bald  Eagle  range  to  the  east,  and 
the  main  chain  of  the  Alleghenies  to  the  west,  that  val- 
ley where  the  great  Cayuga  chieftain.  Captain  Logan, 
the  son  of  Shikellemus,  lived  and  hunted,  that  the  fu- 
ture Nimrod's  earliest  impressions  of  life  were  formed. 
Flis  ideal  was  the  outdoor  man,  the  man  of  action,  the 
slayer  of  ferocious  beasts,  the  man  who  made  the 
trackless  forest  "blossom  like  the  rose." 

Aaron  Hall's  father  was  a  noted  hunter,  as  were  all 
his  ancestors  on  his  paternal  and  maternal  sides.  It 
was  blood  as  well  as  emulation  that  made  him  the 
premier  panther  slayer  of  his  generation.  He  was 
barely  seventeen  years  of  age  when  he  notched  his  rifle 
for  the  first  time  for  the  scalp  of  a  Pennsylvania  lion 
{Felis  couguar).  He  had  gone  to  fetch  the  cattle, 
which  pastured  in  Riggle's  Gap,  when  his  dog,  which 
was  running  on  ahead  of  him,  set  up  a  terrific  barking. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  315 

Hurrying  forward  he  saw  a  half-grown  panther  lying 
on  the  limb  of  a  rock  oak  which  hung  over  the  cow 
path.  Before  the  animal  could  see  him  he  had  raised 
his  rifle,  and  a  well-directed  shot  sent  it  sprawling 
among  the  dead  leaves  at  his  feet.  It  was  by  the  body 
of  this  brute,  which  measured  nearly  six  feet  in  length, 
that  Aaron  Hall  resolved  to  search  the  Central  Penn- 
sylvania mountains  until  he  had  slain  a  half  a  hundred 
panthers.  In  his  huntmg  he  would  trail  them  in  the 
open,  for  the  sake  of  good  sport,  scorning  traps, 
snares  and  poisons.  It  would  mean  man  versus  brute, 
and  not  man  plus  sirychnine  against  a  defenseless 
animal. 

That  fall  he  added  four  more  notches  to  his  gun, 
panthers  being  slain  in  Riggle's,  Bell's,  Tipton's  and 
Homer's  Gaps,  respectively.  From  that  year  on 
(1845)  until  the  end  of  1869  he  continued  his  cease- 
less but  honorable  warfare  with  the  Pennsylvania  lion. 
Meanwhile  he  had  assumed  man's  estate,  married,  took 
up  lumbering,  and,  having  prospered,  purchased  five 
hundred  acres  of  land  on  a  high  plateau  facing  the 
Allegheny  Mountains  back  of  Julian,  Centre  County. 
It  was  the  ideal  abiding  place  for  an  intrepid  spirit,  a 
lover  of  the  wilderness.  The  main  chain  of  the  Alle- 
ghenies,  which  he  had  looked  upon  since  birth,  rose  less 
than  a  mile  back  of  the  spot  on  which  he  erected  his 
mansion.  A  vast  flat  stretched  out  from  the  summit  of 
the  range,  a  forest  of  virgin  pine  for  miles  and  miles  to 
the  north  and  west,  where  those  splendid  streams,  the 
Little  Moshannon  and  Beech  Creek  rise,  and  where 


316  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

amid  the  fantastic  rocks  of  "Baretown,"  a  city  of  far 
antiquity,  Rock  Run  has  its  source. 

When  Aaron  Hall  first  moved  into  that  region  it  was 
said  that  he  lived  below  the  best  trout  stream  and  the 
best  big  game  section  in  Pennsylvania.  The  trout  of 
Little  Moshannon  had  an  especially  delicious  flavor, 
and  were  gamey  to  catch.  The  rock  caverns  along 
Rock  Run  were  the  hiding  places  of  countless  panthers 
and  black  bears.  Deer  were  as  common  as  cattle. 
The  hunters  never  deigned  to  shoot  wolves,  wild  cats  or 
foxes,  calling  them  "small  game."  Where  there  is  a 
gorge  in  the  Allegheny  Mountains,  which  lets  out 
Laurel  Run,  a  tributary  of  the  Bald  Eagle,  Aaron 
Hall  had  his  favorite  deer  lick.  It  was  under  a  mile 
from  his  house,  much  more  convenient  to  go  there  than 
to  the  butcher's  at  Unionville,  when  there  was  need  of 
fresh  meat.  Where  the  mountain  dipped  down,  in  full 
sight  of  the  house,  stood  a  giant  original  white  pine.  It 
seemed  to  tower  a  hundred  feet  above  the  other  trees 
on  the  mountain,  and  on  it  the  great  hunter  constructed 
his  "blind."  From  it  he  shot  scores  of  deer,  also  many 
were  the  wild  turkeys  slaughtered  while  concealed  high 
among  the  branches. 

In  order  to  make  a  special  success  of  panther  hunting 
he  evolved  a  breed  of  dog  that  was  invincible  against 
the  Pennsylvania  lion.  When  he  first  moved  to  his 
mountain  home  the  panthers  would  sometimes  roar  at 
night  from  the  summit  of  the  Alleghenies  back  of  the 
house.  It  seemed  as  if  they  were  mocking  him,  as  he 
could  not  well  trail  them  until  the  daylight,  when  the 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  317 

tracks  were  often  lost.  With  the  panther  dogs  it  was 
different.  At  the  first  fiendish  shriek  from  the  mountain 
top  Hall  would  get  out  of  his  bed,  dress  hastily,  go  to 
the  kennel,  and  accompanied  by  his  faithful  canine 
friends,  trail  the  panthers  and  often  bring  them  to  bay. 
\Si^en  a  panther  was  overtaken  one  dog  would  seize  it 
by  each  ear,  holding  on  until  the  hunter  came  up  to 
end  its  life  with  a  bullet.  These  dogs  were  a  cross  be- 
tween the  bloodhound,  the  bulldog,  the  mastiff  and  the 
Newfoundland,  in  such  proportions  as  to  produce  the 
desired  qualities  of  scent,  courage,  fidelity  and  "stickat- 
itiveness."  They  were  large  beasts,  light  brown  in  color, 
with  great  substance  and  power,  so  huge  in  fact  that 
they  could  carry  a  full  grown  man  on  their  backs. 
They  must  have  resembled  the  fabulous  Irish  wolf- 
hounds described  by  Oliver  Goldsmith,  who  told  of 
dining  at  an  Irish  country  house  where  these  dogs  were 
£o  large  that  their  heads  rested  on  the  backs  of  the  tall 
dining-room  chairs. 

Aaron  Hall  bred  his  panther  hounds  for  twenty 
years.  He  had  gotten  them  to  a  point  of  perfection 
when  the  supply  of  Pennsylvania  lions  became  ex- 
hausted or  moved  to  other  localities.  During  his  earlier 
years  as  a  hunter,  he  killed  his  game  along  the  foot  of 
the  Alleghenies,  or  in  the  gorges  or  "gaps"  which 
opened  into  the  valleys,  but  his  last  years  of  sport  were 
in  the  very  heart  of  the  mountains.  The  game  de- 
creased in  numbers,  or  became  more  shy;  it  had  to  be 
hunted.  Accordingly  he  built  a  cabin  of  logs  at  the 
head  of  Rock  Run,  about  ten  miles  from  his  mansion. 


318  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

Aaron  Hall,  who  was  a  huge  man,  six  feet  four 
inches  in  height,  built  like  a  Hercules,  and  resemblng 
one,  when  he  wore  a  curling  blonde  beard,  thought 
nothing  of  walking  to  his  cabin  and  back  in  a  day,  al- 
though to  get  there  it  was  an  up-hill  tramp  most  of  the 
way,  and  on  one  occasion  he  carried  a  wounded  hunter 
the  entire  ten  miles  to  his  home  on  his  back.  In  the 
early  sixties  his  cabin  was  a  sight  well  worthy  of  pil- 
grimage. In  front  of  it  he  usually  kept  the  frozen  car- 
casses of  a  dozen  panthers,  and  a  like  number  of  bears 
and  stags.  The  bears,  the  biggest  ones  he  could  find, 
were  always  set  up  on  their  hind  feet,  with  sticks  in 
front  to  prevent  them  from  toppling  over,  with  their 
jaws  propped  open  with  skewers.  It  would  frighten  a 
tenderfoot,  this  array  of  the  terrible  monsters  of  Rock 
Run. 

Aaron  Hall  had  countless  adventures  hunting  the 
Pennsylvania  lion.  On  one  occasion  he  was  seated 
against  a  grassy  bank  eating  his  lunch.  He  heard  a 
tap,  tap,  tap,  tap,  back  of  him;  it  seemed  louder  than 
leaves  striking  the  grass  in  the  breeze.  He  reached  for 
his  rifle,  he  never  moved  without  it,  and  turning  around 
shot  a  ten-foot  panther  between  the  eyes,  which  was 
poising  itself  to  spring  at  him.  Another  time  he  was 
watching  for  deer  at  a  "crossing";  being  seated  on  a 
rotten  log  with  his  rifle  across  his  lap.  Somethmg 
caused  him  to  put  his  hand  at  his  side,  and  he  placed  it 
in  the  fur  of  a  giant  panther,  which  was  resting  literally 
at  his  feet.  Jumping  up  he  shot  the  panther  through 
the  top  of  the  head.    Another  time  he  was  watching  at 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  319 

a  deer  lick  when  a  huge  stag  came  into  the  open.  He 
was  getting  ready  to  take  aim  when  a  panther,  which 
had  been  crouching  unknown  to  him  on  a  nearby  rock, 
sprang  on  the  deer,  killing  it  with  a  single  blow  from 
one  of  its  paws  on  the  jugular  vein.  But  Aaron  Hall 
had  shot  the  panther  dead  before  it  had  time  to  feast 
off  its  victim.  Once  he  found  a  panther  cub  in  a  hollow 
log.  Picking  it  up  he  started  to  carry  it  home.  He 
had  not  gone  far  when  the  mother  came  out  of  the 
forest  and  began  to  follow,  crying  like  a  sheep  for  her 
little  one.  The  mighty  hunter  allowed  her  to  trail  him 
to  the  edge  of  his  fields,  when  he  shot  her,  fearing  that 
she  would  frighten  his  wife  and  daughters.  The  cub 
became  quite  a  pet  around  the  house  until  it  was  acci- 
dentally killed  by  one  of  the  panther  dogs. 

But  most  of  Aaron  Hall's  panther  hunting  was  done 
in  the  winter  time  in  the  "tracking  snow."  He  would 
go  out  with  his  dogs,  reconnoitering,  and  when  they 
found  panther  tracks  they  would  follow  them  for  hours, 
sometimes  for  days,  until  they  located  the  quarry. 
When  the  snow  was  deep  Hall  traveled  on  snowshoes, 
sleeping  under  a  lean-to  of  hemlock  boughs,  if  over- 
taken by  night  in  the  forest.  One  evening  when  he  was 
returning  after  an  unsuccessful  chase  he  saw  where  four 
panthers  had  crossed  his  path.  He  sent  his  dogs  after 
the  brutes,  and  by  daybreak  rounded  up  and  killed  the 
entire  four.  That  was  his  biggest  day's  kill  of  mature 
panthers.  He  once  saw  where  nine  panthers  had 
crossed  a  trail,  but  as  his  dogs  were  tired,  having 
hunted  down  two  panthers  that  day,  he  did  not  send 


320  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

them  to  break  up  this  feline  convention.  He  always 
aimed  to  kill  his  panthers  at  the  first  shot,  as  they 
charged  when  wounded,  and  many  were  the  hair- 
breadth escapes  of  his  fellow-hunters  whose  aim  was 
not  so  accurate.  In  the  late  sixties  panthers  became 
very  scarce  in  the  AUeghenies,  so  Hall  turned  his  atten- 
tion to  bear  hunting.  In  a  few  years  he  had  killed  over 
a  hundred  of  these  animals,  some  of  them  of  enormous 
size. 

The  biggest  bear  he  killed  was  "Old  Lame  Legs," 
so  called  because  of  his  limping  gait.  He  had  prob- 
ably once  been  in  a  steel  trap,  and  weighed  close  to  six 
hundred  pounds.  It  is  related  that  he  trailed  this  bear 
on  snowshoes  for  three  days  and  nights.  He  had  a 
frontiersman's  disgust  for  the  tenderfoot. 

When  the  Hon.  Coleman  Sober,  of  Lewisburg,  the 
world  famous  rifle  shot,  went  to  see  him  for  the  first 
time  and  asked  him  to  take  him  on  one  of  his  hunts. 
Hall  said  that  he  would  first  "try  him  out."  After  a 
twenty-three-mile  tramp  over  rocks  and  snow  Sober 
was  indefatigable,  and  was  ever  afterward  a  welcome 
guest  and  companion  at  the  hunting  cabin  on  Rock 
Run. 

Until  probably  thirty  years  ago,  when  the  remnant  of 
panthers  in  Pennsylvania  retired  to  the  Seven  Moun- 
tains, after  the  cutting  of  the  last  original  pine  at  the 
headwaters  of  Little  Moshannon  and  Beech  Creek,  the 
Allegheny  backbone  in  Blair  and  Centre  Counties  was 
the  last  stronghold  of  the  lion  of  Pennsylvania.  The 
last  two  killed  in  that  region  were  shot  in  1885  and 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  321 

1 886  by  John  Lucas  and  Charles  Stewart,  respectively. 
They  were  slain  near  Beecher's  Camp,  in  the  Gum 
Stump  section,  in  one  of  the  last  large  tracts  of  original 
timber  thereabouts.  The  panthers,  like  the  wolves, 
loved  the  virgin  forests.  They  dropped  out  of  sight  as 
their  cover  and  food  were  destroyed.  And  when  the 
panthers  and  wolves  disappeared  the  deer  deteriorated 
in  size  and  swiftness,  for  Nature  to  be  perfect  must 
maintain  its  balance. 

Once,  after  Aaron  Hall  had  ceased  hunting  pan- 
thers his  sons  told  him  of  some  tracks  they  had  seen  in 
the  Laurel  Run  glen. 

"It's  too  near  home,"  said  the  old  man,  "but  I'll  go 
out  and  see." 

He  tramped  up  to  where  the  tracks  crossed  the  hol- 
lov/,  but  when  he  saw  them  he  shook  his  head  sadly. 
"It  might  be  a  big  wolf,  but  it's  no  panther." 

Perhaps  the  last  bit  of  wildness  that  happened  at  the 
great  house  on  the  hill  occurred  a  fev/  years  before  the 
death  of  Aaron  Hall.  It  was  a  cold  winter's  night, 
nearly  thirty  years  ago,  and  the  dogs  set  up  a  terrific 
barking.  The  old  hunter  went  to  the  back  door, 
which  he  opened,  looking  out  into  the  frigid  night,  with 
the  tiny  light  of  the  stars  above  glittering  on  the  snow. 
At  the  edge  of  the  field,  nearest  to  the  mountain  he 
noted  som.ething  like  gleaming  yellow  lamps  mov- 
ing to  and  fro.  On  closer  scrutiny,  he  perceived 
the  dark  outlines  of  a  dozen  wolves.  The  animals, 
hungry  from  the  scarcity  of  ailing  deer,  had  come  off 
the  mountain  to  make  a  foray  on  Hall's  sheepfold,  but 


322  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

the  alertness  of  the  dogs  had  made  them  afraid  to  ven- 
ture any  further  than  the  far  edge  of  the  clearing. 
Aaron  Hall  watched  them  for  fully  half  an  hour;  many 
were  the  thoughts  that  were  coursing  through  his  brain, 
for  he  felt  that  he  would  likely  never  see  such  a  sight 
again,  unless  it  be  that  beyond  the  mountains,  where  the 
good  and  the  brave  go  after  death,  the  chase  exists  as 
the  supreme  reward.  After  despairing  of  success  in 
the  fold,  with  a  final  yelp,  the  wolves  turned  away  and 
the  dogs  ceased  their  barking,  the  mighty  hunter  went 
inside  and  shut  the  door.  And  the  cold  night  reigned 
supreme. 

Forest  fires  raging  on  the  summits  year  after  year 
chased  away  the  deer  that  the  hunters  did  not  get. 
There  were  no  weakly  harts  or  hinds  for  the  wolfish 
tribe.  Many  wolves  died  from  eating  poisoned  meat; 
they  came  no  more.  The  few  survivors  vanished 
with  the  other  picturesque  elements  of  the  wilder- 
ness. 

In  the  fall  of  1892,  just  before  the  hunting  season, 
Aaron  Hall,  slayer  of  fifty  Pennsylvania  lions,  of  in- 
numerable bears,  lynxes,  wolves  and  stags,  crossed  the 
borderland  into  that  unknown  land  where  it  is  hoped 
that  the  brave  are  rewarded  with  the  glorious  chase. 
But  his  memory  will  live  in  Central  Pennsylvania,  all 
along  the  Juniata  and  the  Bald  Eagle,  and  serve  as  an 
inspiration  to  those  who  would  be  bold  and  fearless  if 
born  in  a  less  empty  day,  or  if  the  emergency  presented. 
And  around  the  great,  gaunt,  tall-chimneyed  house, 
which  faces  the  main  massif  of  the  Alleghenies,  the 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  323 

winter  winds  howl  woo,  woo,  woo,  the  hemlocks  in 
the  yard  sway  and  sweep  in  the  icy  blasts,  the  night 
settles  down  bleaker  and  more  profound,  and  in  the 
very  heart  of  all  lives  the  spirit  of  the  olden  days. 


324  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 


XXII. 
HALLOWE'EN. 

A  TALE  OF  THE  EARLY  IRONMASTERS. 

**T  HEARD  the  owl  hooting  back  of  the  big  house 
I  to-night  as  I  was  coming  past,"  said  the  old  iron- 
moulder  as  he  seated  himself  in  a  group  of  half  a 
dozen  elderly  men  at  the  Hallowe'en  party  in  the  larg- 
est stone  cottage  in  "workingmen's  row."  "And  it's  a 
bad  sign,"  he  continued,  "especially  on  this  night,  for 
it  cannot  fail  but  bring  disaster." 

A  hush  fell  on  the  party  as  they  looked  about  them; 
to  talk  of  disaster  when  all  the  young  people  were  hav- 
ing such  a  good  time  and  Indian  Joe  was  fiddling  his 
liveliest  tunes  seemed  irrelevant,  out  of  place.  Yet  it 
was  Hallowe'en,  when  there  should  be  such  a  sub- 
stratum to  all  conversations.  Removing  themselves 
mentally  from  the  glowing  candle  lights  and  gaieties, 
and  huddling  closer  to  the  open  charcoal  grate,  the 
old  men  cogitated  as  to  the  exact  nature  of  the  coming 
holocaust.  For  everyone  of  them  firmly  believed  in  the 
family  "token"  of  the  Hasted  family,  the  masters  of 
"Creekglade  Forge"  at  the  source  of  Stone  Creek. 
Unlike  the  Irish  banshee,  which  generally  reserved  its 
appearances  only  before  death  in  a  family  this  token 
of  English  origin  presented  itself  on  the  eve  of  grave 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  325 

illnesses,  financial  disasters,  disappointments,  dangers, 
as  well  as  foretelling  the  coming  of  the  dark  angel. 

The  third  generation  of  the  Hasted  family  to  own 
the  forge  was  now  in  control,  the  first  of  the  name  Abra- 
ham having  settled  in  Pennsylvania  in  1  798.  He  had 
capital,  as  well  as  brains  and  energy,  soon  making  him- 
self a  leading  figure  financially  and  socially  in  Central 
Pennsylvania.  But  the  family  had  been  followed  by 
domestic  tragedies  of  every  conceivable  kind ;  it  seemed 
that  as  the  money  flowed  into  their  cornucopia  of  life, 
happiness  slipped  out  at  the  other  end.  But  as  proof  of 
their  inherent  excellence,  their  employes  at  the  forge 
remained  from  generation  to  generation,  being  like  the 
retainers  of  feudal  days  in  their  conspicuous  loyalty. 
The  Hasted  family  was  literally  "born  to  command," 
yet  their  methods  were  such  that  they  maintained  both 
love  and  order. 

"I  don't  like  that  owl  hooting  again,"  said  another 
of  the  old  workmen,  the  chief  forgeman*  "I  was  bom 
here  nearly  sixty  years  ago,  and  I've  heard  of  it  call- 
ing from  that  old  walnut  tree  back  of  the  manse  at 
least  twenty  times  —  every  time  something  went 
wrong. 

"I  was  a  small  boy  when  the  first  of  the  Hasteds 
went  on  that  business  trip  to  Philadelphia,  from  which 
he  never  returned.  He  had  heard  the  owl  hooting 
himself,  and  his  wife  urged  him  not  to  go,  but  he  went. 
It  hooted  the  night  before  the  youngest  son  'Sam,'  a 
major  of  dragoons,  was  killed  in  the  Mexican  War. 
It  hooted  before  that  great  forest  fire  in   1835,  when 


326  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

all  the  buildings  except  the  stack  and  the  big  house 
were  destroyed.  It  hooted  when  the  second  son's  wife 
was  killed  in  that  runaway  accident.  It  hooted  so 
many  times  that  I  could  keep  on  giving  instances  until 
daybreak.  It  isn't  the  cry  of  a  Pennsylvania  screech 
owl  or  a  hoot  owl ;  it  is  an  English  owl,  that  speaks  a 
gloomier,  more  blood-curdling  language  than  any  of  its 
kind  native  to  these  parts.  I  know  it,  and  all  the  old- 
timers  here  know  it.  I  don't  think  that  any  one  would 
ever  be  mistaken  that  heard  it  once.  Most  of  the  old 
families — the  quality  folks,  I  mean — have  a  banshee  or 
token.  They  could  not  escape  them  when  they  moved 
from  the  north  of  Ireland  or  from  England.  It  is  one 
thing  that  we  with  less  'family  tree'  don't  envy  them 
for.  We  all  have  to  meet  our  sorrows  in  this  life,  but 
they  have  the  foreknowledge  which  makes  the  agony 
more  long  drawn  out.  Not  many  of  the  Dutch  have 
the  tokens,  but  those  that  do  generally  had  pretty  good 
stock  back  of  them.  The  token  is  a  great  follower  of 
class. 

All  the  old  men  listened  attentively  to  this  exposi- 
tion of  something  that  they  had  heard  over  and  over 
again,  and  knew  by  heart,  but  they  dearly  loved  to  dis- 
cuss anything  pertaining  to  the  "big  house"  above  all 
else. 

The  old  gutterman,  who  had  been  the  first  speaker, 
then  took  up  the  narrative.  "You  are  right  about  all 
the  old  families  having  the  tokens,  but  there  are  some 
hereabouts  that  have  the  Irish  token  or  banshee.  The 
Clawaghters  up  in  the  Seven  Mountains  have  a  queer 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  327 

one,  a  one-armed  man  in  a  canoe  goes  down  the  Ka- 
roondinha  the  night  before  there  is  a  death  in  the  fam- 
ily. The  MacGifferts  on  the  Lewistown  Pike  have  a 
coal  black  fox;  it  crosses  the  road  in  front  of  the  person 
who  is  to  die.  The  McQueenys,  of  Rock  Pine  Forge, 
have  a  big  black  dog;  it  barks  in  the  yard  the  night  be- 
fore there's  a  death  in  the  family.  With  the  Muchol- 
lans,  at  Black  Diamond  Furnace,  it's  a  goose  with  a 
black  head  that  is  hatched  the  season  when  one  of  the 
household  is  to  die.  The  McHales,  at  Indianville 
Forges,  have  a  pure  white  calf  with  a  black  head  bom 
on  their  farm  when  there  is  to  be  death  in  the  family. 
When  one  of  the  McClanys  at  Swatragh  Forge  is  to 
die,  a  bird  flies  in  the  house,  circles  around  the  room, 
and  goes  out  again  into  the  night.  V/hen  there  is  to  be 
death  among  the  McGlawns  at  McConnellstown  som.e 
member  of  the  family  dreams  of  losing  a  tooth;  if  an 
old  yellow  tooth,  an  aged  person;  if  a  white,  bleeding 
tooth,  a  young  person.  And  the  families  that  have 
tokens  which  merely  foretell  bad  luck — they  are  too 
numerous  to  mention." 

The  old  men  smoked  their  pipes  in  silence  for  a  mo- 
ment or  two,  then  the  charger  spoke  again.  "I  am 
glad  that  the  hoot  owl  of  the  Hasteds  does  not  always 
mean  death." 

There  was  another  pause,  broken  by  the  old  gutter- 
man  saying,  "There  are  some  things  worse  than  death." 

Then  another  old  man,  a  visitor  at  one  of  the  work- 
men's houses,  who  had  been  silent  during  the  entire  con- 
versation,  spoke  up:    'T  wonder  who  up   at  the  big 


328  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

house  is  to  have  trouble ;  they  are  a  healthy  looking  lot, 
more  chance  that  one  of  us  would  fall  by  the  wayside 
than  any  of  them." 

The  old  gutterman  who  had  started  the  talk,  leaned 
over  and  putting  his  mouth  close  to  the  elderly 
stranger's  ear,  whispered,  but  in  tones  loud  enough  for 
the  other  old  men  to  hear:  "Young  Abe,  the  master's 
oldest  son,  isn't  doing  the  right  thing.  He's  running 
with  Mary  Metzger,  the  daughter  of  a  collier,  and  no 
good  will  come  of  it,  mark  my  word." 

"Why,  hasn't  he  a  perfect  right  to  go  with  whoever 
he  pleases?"  spoke  up  the  stranger,  with  a  small  show 
of  indignation.  "I  believe  in  the  rich  marrying  the 
poor,  it  evens  up  things." 

The  old  gutterman  shook  his  head.  "You  don't 
know  much  of  human  nature,  partner,"  he  said,  "or  you 
wouldn't  talk  that  way.  There  is  as  much  difference 
in  people  as  there  is  between  fishes  and  birds.  They 
cannot  mix;  it's  harder  than  putting  oil  and  water  to- 
gether. The  quality  folks  must  stay  by  themselves,  the 
working  people  by  ourselves ;  only  misery  comes  of  mix- 
ing the  breeds." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,"  said  the  stranger,  pulling 
his  long  white  beard  angrily.  "Over  in  the  Dutch  belt 
where  I  come  from  we  have  no  classes,  all  mix  to- 
gether, everybody  is  happy." 

"I  guess  you  are  right  there,"  replied  the  gutterman. 
"All  can  be  happy  together  where  no  distinctions  exist, 
but  where  they  do  exist,  they  can  never  come  together. 
I  have  heard  new  workmen  come  here  and  say,  'I'm  as 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  329 

good  as  they  are,  I'll  mix  with  them,  they'll  mix  with 
me,'  but  a  five  minutes'  talk  satisfied  them  that  their 
point  of  view  was  so  different  from  the  folks  at  the  big 
house,  that  it  was  as  if  they  spoke  a  different  lan- 
guage." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you;  it's  all  imagination,  this 
'difference.'  People  are  the  same,  they  all  die  the  same 
way,  and  have  to  face  the  same  Maker.  I  don't  see 
what  harm  could  come  to  that  young  Abe  Hasted  be- 
cause he  runs  about  with  a  coal-burner's  daughter." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  said  the  moulder  calmly,  "at 
these  old  forge  communities  we  live  by  ourselves,  away 
from  the  rest  of  the  world.  We  have  time  to  watch 
things  more  closely  than  folks  in  the  busy  centers. 
While  the  people  at  the  big  house  are  the  kindest  and 
best  in  the  world,  they  are  different  from  workmen. 
We  know  it,  and  we  are  content  to  remain  privates  in 
the  regiment." 

"That's  all  right,"  broke  in  the  old  Lehigh  County 
man,  "but  I  demand  you  tell  me  what  is  going  to 
happen  to  young  Abe  Hasted  because  he  keeps  com- 
pany with  a  collier's  daughter." 

"That  I  don't  know  exactly,  but  I'll  tell  you  what 
happened  to  his  grandfather,  the  first  Abraham 
Hasted,  for  whom  he  was  named.  It  will  take  you 
back  nearly  a  hundred  years,  to  old  England.  Some- 
where over  there  the  original  Hasteds  owned  a  fine 
estate  called  'Ramhurst.'  The  story  goes  that  they 
possessed  one  hundred  thousand  acres  of  land,  part 
farming  country,  and  the  rest  underlaid  with  minerals. 


330  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

principally  iron.  About  a  mile  from  the  stone  castle 
where  they  lived — it  was  said  to  be  a  thousand  years 
old — was  a  thriving  town,  a  'cathedral  town'  they 
called  it.  The  Hasteds,  of  course,  never  mixed  with 
the  business  people  of  the  town;  they  had  their  own 
society  made  up  of  wealthy  landowners  like  them- 
selves, and  nobility  and  military  officers.  The  first 
Abraham  Hasted  to  come  to  this  valley  was  the  oldest 
son  of  the  owner  of  that  one  hundred  thousand  acres  of 
land  and  the  stone  castle.  He  was  a  shy  backward 
boy,  having  been  petted  too  much  at  home.  He  never 
cared  for  the  opposite  sex,  although  his  relatives  tried 
hard  to  interest  him  in  some  of  the  wealthy  girls  in  his 
own  social  circle.  He  was  nearly  thirty  years  old, 
and  showed  no  signs  of  becoming  a  benedict.  One 
afternoon  he  was  sitting  with  his  mother  in  her  private 
apartments  when  a  knock  came  on  the  door.  A  serv- 
ant announced  that  the  milliner  from  the  town  had 
sent  a  representative  with  a  few  of  the  latest  style  hats 
for  her  ladyship's  inspection.  The  proud  woman  told 
the  servant  to  send  the  milliner  in.  The  door  was 
pushed  open,  and  a  very  pretty  girl  of  fifteen,  blush- 
ingly  entered.  She  was  carrying  six  large  boxes  of 
hats,  was  almost  hidden  behind  them.  The  young 
gentleman  got  up  when  he  saw  her  enter,  was  about  to 
leave  the  room,  when  something  about  the  girl  fasci- 
nated him  and  made  him  tarry.  Whether  it  was  her 
blush,  or  her  artless,  shy  demeanor,  or  her  pretty 
brown  hair,  oval  face,  good  nose,  clear  white  skin,  and 
deep-set  blue  eyes,  he  could  not  tell,  but  he  felt  a  some- 


U 
< 
Z 

OC 
D 
u. 


H 

Q 
J 
O 

z 

< 

o 

UJ 

H 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  331 

thing  for  her  that  he  had  never  experienced  for  any 
other  member  of  her  sex. 

"She  almost  tripped  over  the  boxes  as  she  sat  them 
down  blushing  again,  and  the  youth  had  a  further 
good  look  at  her.  She  was  of  medium  height,  well 
filled  out  for  her  age,  with  pretty  hands  and  feet.  She 
wore  a  small  dark  hat,  a  red  worsted  coat,  a  dark  blue 
skirt  of  homespun;  there  was  nothing  stylish  in  her 
attire.  Yet  despite  her  awkwardness  and  plainness 
of  apparel  he  was  madly  in  love  with  her.  Usually  so 
diffident,  he  assisted  the  girl  in  taking  the  hats  out  of 
the  boxes  and  displaying  them  before  his  mother.  Evi- 
dently he  would  have  made  a  good  salesman,  for  the 
lady  decided  to  take  four  of  them.  The  girl  was  al- 
most overcome  with  her  good  fortune,  curtsying  as  best 
she  could,  and  thanking  her  profusely.  It  meant  that 
henceforth  her  employer  would  think  more  of  her. 

"Instead  of  ringing  for  the  footman  to  open  the 
door,  young  Abraham  helped  the  girl  with  the  boxes, 
and  at  the  back  door  of  the  castle  insisted  that  he  carry 
some  of  them  as  far  as  the  shop.  It  was  the  first  work 
that  he  had  ever  done;  he  was  perspiring  freely  when 
he  reached  the  town,  as  it  was  a  hot  August  day. 

"The  milliner,  who  was  usually  very  severe  with  her 
pretty  apprentice,  was  amazed  to  find  that  she  had  sold 
four  hats,  and  had  been  assisted  back  to  the  shop  by 
the  great  lady's  son. 

"As  the  lad  was  putting  down  the  last  box  he  asked 
the  girl  her  name.  'Betsey  Gisborne,*  she  faltered, 
looking  down  and  blushing  again. 


332  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

"  *Vm  Abraham  Hasted,*  said  the  youth  as  he  hur- 
ried away. 

"As  he  was  a  noted  horseman  he  always  managed 
to  drive  his  favorite  hackney  through  the  town  during 
the  hours  when  the  fair  Betsey  would  be  on  the  streets 
on  errands  for  her  mistress.  He  gave  her  many  a  'lift' 
into  the  country,  becoming  well  acquainted  with  her. 
He  told  her  of  his  love,  to  which  she  replied  that  she 
had  felt  a  similar  emotion  the  first  time  she  saw  him. 
He  spoke  of  marriage,  to  which  she  said  that  she 
would  love  to  be  his  wife,  only  she  feared  that  their 
vastly  different  stations  in  life  might  be  an  insuperable 
bar,  besides  six  months  before  she  had  promised  her- 
self to  the  milliner's  nephew,  a  butcher  in  the  town, 
when  her  apprenticeship  would  be  over.  She  had  been 
young,  he  was  her  first  admirer,  but  she  had  never 
loved  him,  yet  it  would  be  hard  to  disentangle  herself 
from  him  on  account  of  his  connection  with  her  em- 
ployer. Her  romance  with  the  young  gentleman  had 
been  so  rapid  that  the  butcher  had  not  learned  he  had 
a  rival,  yet  he  must  soon  find  it  out,  as  the  town  was 
small,  and  he  would  be  furious.  Then  Abraham  con- 
fessed that  if  his  parents  knew  of  his  infatuation,  or  his 
intentions  with  a  milliner's  apprentice  they  would  shut 
him  up  in  a  dungeon;  it  would  be  impossible  ever  to 
marry  with  their  permission.  Insomuch  as  both  Betsey 
and  he  had  complications  to  the  calm  consummation  of 
their  romance,  if  she  loved  him  enough  to  go  with  him 
to  America,  he  would  fly  with  her  that  very  night. 
"It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  they  were  in  the  young 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  333 

man's  hackney  cart,  driving  over  a  vast,  open  heath  in 
the  direction  of  the  west.  The  declining  sun,  mellow 
and  golden,  spoke  of  a  world  of  hope  beyond  the 
seas.  Taking  his  arm  in  hers,  the  lovely  girl  pressed 
herself  against  him,  declaring  her  unselfish  love  in  im- 
passioned tones,  and  swearing  that  she  would  go  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth  for  him.  He  kissed  her,  telling  her 
that  he  had  enough  money  and  drafts  on  his  person  to 
enable  him  to  take  her  to  America;  so  he  wheeled  his 
horse  about,  and  the  high  cart  flew  faster  than  ever, 
now  headed  toward  the  east  coast.  He  knew  of  a  post 
town  twenty  miles  away;  if  they  could  reach  it  in  an 
hour,  a  stage  left  that  night  for  Hull,  a  seaport  where 
many  ships  embarked  for  America.  And  it  was  to  the 
post  town  they  sped  out  of  the  track  of  the  setting  sun 
into  the  gathering  night,  two  hearts  at  peace  with  the 
world. 

"It  was  an  easy  drive  for  a  swift  horse  on  a  cool 
September  evening,  the  post  town  was  reached  within 
the  hour.  The  horse  and  cart  were  left  at  the  stable 
of  an  inn,  the  happy  couple  were  soon  speeding  toward 
the  seacoast  in  the  stage  coach.  All  night  long  they 
rode,  in  happy  expectancy,  for  the  post  boy  told  them 
that  he  was  sure  a  clipper  would  be  sailing  in  the  morn- 
ing. There  was  a  heavy  fog  when  they  arrived  at  the 
port  of  Hull.  They  sought  out  the  captain  of  the  ship, 
which  bore  the  prophetic  name  of  the  'Indian  Queen.' 
Yes,  he  was  sailing  for  America,  for  the  port  of  Phil- 
adelphia, as  soon  as  the  fog  lifted;  he  was  a  day  late 
already,  but  hoped  soon  to  be  underway. 


334  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

"Despite  the  fact  that  there  were  no  telegraphs  or 
telephones  or  railway  trains,  Abraham  and  Betsey 
were  extremely  nervous  all  day,  fearing  that  they 
might  be  apprehended  or  recognized.  They  remained 
in  the  cabin  until  evening,  when  a  fine  wind  arose,  and 
the  ship  weighed  anchor,  heading  for  the  golden  west. 
The  trip  was  not  a  honeymoon — that  was  its  only 
drawback — four  weeks  was  a  long  voyage  for  two 
who  were  not  married  but  longed  to  be. 

"At  length  the  Delaware  was  reached,  and  then  the 
long-looked-for  city  of  Philadelphia.  As  soon  as  the^' 
were  safely  on  shore  a  German  clergyman  living  near 
the  docks  was  located  and  the  nuptial  knot  tied.  The 
young  couple  decided  to  go  to  Lancaster,  then  almost 
on  the  edge  of  the  wilderness,  and  there  select  a  per- 
manent place  of  abode.  In  Lancaster  they  learned  of 
the  magnificent  timber  and  mineral  wealth  of  the  val- 
leys contiguous  to  the  Juniata,  with  a  result  that  the 
bridegroom  made  a  payment  on  ten  thousand  acres  of 
land  in  what  is  now  Huntingdon  County.  He  knew 
something  about  furnaces  and  forges;  he  would  follow 
the  dignified  occupation  of  ironmaster. 

"Betsey  Hasted,  as  she  was  now  called,  was  a 
woman  of  uncommon  intelligence  and  force  of  char- 
acter. She  was  what  might  be  termed  a  'business 
woman,'  and  was  an  able  aid  to  her  husband  in  their 
mountain  home.  On  shipboard  he  had  drafted  a  letter 
to  his  parents  which  was  mailed  in  Philadelphia.  The 
proud  couple  was  shocked,  but  not  surprised  when 
they  received  it,  as  the  disappearance  of  Betsey  Gis- 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  335 

borne  had  uncovered  the  whole  story.  Needless  to 
say  they  sent  emissaries  to  the  young  man,  begging  him 
to  give  up  his  bride  and  return.  These  faihng,  they 
sent  out  word  that  if  he  would  come  home  with  his 
bride  all  would  be  forgiven.  But  his  answer  to  all  was 
that  he  was  well  pleased  with  his  Pennsylvania  resi- 
dence, that  he  loved  his  wife,  and  wanted  to  be  let 
alone.  He  further  asked  that  his  younger  brother  be- 
come heir  to  the  estate,  but  he  wished  some  money  sent 
him  to  aid  in  developing  his  enterprise  as  an  ironmas- 
ter. This  was  done,  but  years  passed  before  he  had 
closed  all  the  negotiations  with  his  conservative  parents. 

"Six  children  were  bom  to  Abraham  and  Betsey 
Hasted;  the  furnace  was  a  financial  success,  they 
named  it  'Creekglade,'  after  the  tiny  village  in  Eng- 
land near  which  they  were  driving  when  they  had  de- 
clared their  mutual  love.  All  seemed  to  augur  a  long 
and  happy  life  for  the  couple  who  had  taken  destiny 
in  their  own  hands,  had  broken  down  the  bonds  of 
caste. 

"One  day  a  letter  was  received  by  Hasted  to  the 
effect  that  his  father  had  died,  that  in  order  to  secure 
his  share  of  the  inheritance  he  should  proceed  at  once 
to  Philadelphia.  The  night  before  an  owl  had  been 
heard  hooting  in  a  large  walnut  tree  back  of  the  re- 
cently finished  manse;  the  ironmaster  had  remarked 
that  it  was  an  old  legend  in  his  family  that  such  a  hoot- 
ing always  foretold  misfortune  or  death.  But  the 
cheerful,  matter-of-fact  little  wife  laughed  his  fears 
away.     The  arrival  of  the  letter  next  morning  inform- 


336  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

ing  him  of  his  father's  demise  seemed  to  bear  out  the 
old  tradition. 

"He  was  overcome  by  the  sad  news,  as  despite  his 
parents'  opposition  to  his  'lowly'  marriage,  father  and 
son  had  always  been  congenial  in  the  past.  Though 
he  tried  hard  to  conceal  his  feelings,  the  young  iron- 
master was  in  a  depressed  frame  of  mind  when  he 
started  away  on  his  horse,  accompanied  by  his  Negro 
servant.  The  bride,  noting  his  gloominess,  urged  him 
to  wait  awhile,  but  he  was  obdurate.  He  would  find 
a  stage  coach  at  Lewistown  that  would  carry  him  the 
balance  of  the  journey.  His  devoted  wife  would  have 
accompanied  him,  but  for  the  fact  that  she  did  not 
wish  to  leave  her  small  children.  The  Negro  servant 
said  that  his  master  was  feeling  in  better  spirits  when 
he  got  on  the  coach,  and  waved  to  several  friends  on 
the  hotel  porch.  That  was  the  last  Abraham  Hasted's 
friends  saw  him  alive.  Late  in  the  afternoon  the  stage 
was  held  up  in  the  Narrows  by  a  lone  masked  man. 
All  the  passengers  threw  up  their  hands  except  one, 
the  master  of  Creekglade  Forge,  who  seemed  to  recog- 
nize the  'robber'  and  made  resistance.  The  bandit 
shot  the  ironmaster  and  split  his  skull  with  the  handle 
of  his  heavy  pistol,  TThen  he  dismounted  from  the 
coach,  letting  it  go  its  way  without  further  molestation ; 
not  a  single  passenger  was  robbed.  From  the  remarks 
that  passed  in  the  thrilling  moment  between  when 
Hasted  recognized  his  murderer  and  received  the  death 
shot,  the  Hasted  family  inferred  that  the  slayer  was 
none  other  than  the  English  butcher  to  whom  his  wife 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  337 

had  once  been  betrothed.  And  when  the  body  was 
picked  up  by  the  roadside  the  next  morning  all  the 
money  and  papers  were  found  intact.  The  only  article 
missing  was  a  miniature  of  the  ironmaster's  wife  that 
had  been  painted  in  Lancaster  by  Jacob  Eichholtz, 
and  which  he  always  carried  in  an  inside  pocket  over 
his  heart. 

"Letters  from  England  received  by  the  widow 
showed  that  the  elder  Hasted  was  not  dead;  the  un- 
fortunate man  had  been  lured  to  his  death  by  a  false 
message.  But  the  murderer  was  never  apprehended, 
so  officially  the  mystery  remains  unsolved  to  this  day. 
All  that  trouble  came  from  an  ill-judged  union,  a 
grand  man  was  sacrificed.  Let  us  hope  that  the  hoot- 
ing owl  does  not  foretell  a  similar  alliance." 

The  merry  party  was  breaking  up  to  go  home  when 
the  old  man  finished  his  story.  Gusts  of  frigid  air 
were  sweeping  in  every  time  the  door  was  opened. 
The  fire  had  burned  low  in  the  Franklin  stove. 


338  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 


XXIII. 
ALL  SOULS'  NIGHT. 

ANOTHER  TALE  OF  THE  EARLY  IRONMASTERS. 

HEN  young  Abraham  Hasted  passed  through 
the  park  which  led  to  the  rear  door  of  the  old 
manse  at  Creekglade  Forge  after  a  tryst  with 
his  beloved,  Mary  Metzger,  in  the  Panther  Gorge,  he 
heard  the  ominous  hooting  of  an  owl  in  the  big  walnut 
tree.  It  was  Hallowe'en,  a  night  when  almost  any- 
thing uncanny  might  be  expected  to  occur,  but  apart 
from  that,  the  owl's  melancholy  cries  had  a  special 
meaning  to  the  young  man. 

Instantly  he  recollected  the  family  tradition,  of  how 
an  owl  hooting  in  the  old  walnut  always  presaged  some 
disaster  to  the  house.  He  especially  hated  to  hear  it 
on  Hallowe'en;  it  gave  reality  to  the  doleful  forebod- 
ings. Used  to  the  woods  as  he  was,  he  had  never 
heard  an  owl  hoot  quite  as  this  one  did.  At  his  hunt- 
ing cabin  in  the  Lechethal  in  the  Seven  Mountains  the 
tiny  screech  owls  often  gave  vent  to  their  weird  outcries 
from  the  acacias  about  the  camp,  and  deeper  in  the 
forests  at  dead  of  night  he  often  listened  to  the  funereal 
croaking  of  the  great  homed  owls. 

But  this  was  a  vastly  different  sound — it  seemed  to 
come  from  the  grave.     Hurrying  up  the  stone  steps. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  339 

with  nervous  fingers  he  plied  his  key  to  the  old-fash- 
ioned lock  of  the  heavy  walnut  door.  Somehow  the 
key  was  slow  in  slipping  into  its  place,  and  while  he 
fumbled  about,  he  was  forced  to  listen  to  the  owl's 
lamenting,  which  seemed  to  grow  louder  and  more 
terrifying  with  every  reverberation.  Finally  the  dis- 
traught youth  was  able  to  get  the  key  to  working,  and 
rushed  inside,  slamming  the  door  after  him. 

But  massive  as  was  the  door  and  closely  built,  the 
dreary  cries  of  the  owl,  at  fifteen-second  intervals,  fil- 
tered into  the  old  hall.  It  was  a  peculiar  hall,  more  like 
a  huge  room  in  which  he  found  himself.  No  staircase  to 
the  upper  floor  was  visible ;  the  stairs  were  in  a  smaller 
passage  concealed  behind  a  door  on  the  west  side  of 
the  hall.  By  this  door  stood  a  tall  clock,  ticking 
heavily  away,  tick,  tock,  tick,  tock,  a  clock  brought 
from  Lancaster  County  that  had  once  belonged  to  his 
grandmother's  family,  the  old  McGarretts,  of  Donegal 
Springs. 

In  the  darkness  he  strove  to  listen  to  the  clock,  but 
it  was  drowned  out  by  the  hooting  of  the  owl.  Surely 
a  pleasanter  evening  than  he  had  spent  could  not  be 
imagined,  yet  this  was  a  disagreeable  ending  to  it. 
Mary  Metzger,  to  oblige  him,  had  remained  away 
from  the  merry  Hallowe'en  party  which  took  place  at 
one  of  the  workmen's  houses,  and  wrapped  up  as 
warmly  as  she  could  had  walked  with  him  up  and  down 
the  path  by  the  creek  in  the  Panther  Gorge,  now  and 
then  stopping  to  listen  to  the  musical  roar  of  a  water- 
fall. 


340  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

The  Panther  fork  of  Stone  Creek  rose  on  a  bench 
of  the  Scrub  Ridge,  and  after  falHng  over  a  cataract 
of  considerable  height  ran  through  the  deep  gorge  to 
join  the  main  stream  a  mile  beyond.  At  this  time,  the 
year  before  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War,  the  tall 
original  hemlocks  grew  in  a  dense  tangle  in  the  gorge, 
so  tall  that  they  seemed  to  be  reaching  up  to  catch  the 
rays  of  the  sun,  which  rays  were  not  distributed  over 
lavishly  in  this  mountainous  region. 

It  was  a  gloomy  place  for  two  lovers  to  wander  at 
midnight  on  Hallowe'en,  but  if  there  was  sunshine  in 
their  hearts,  nature's  blackness  mattered  little.  As  the 
lovers  wandered  up  and  down  the  dismal  vale  the 
young  man  recounted  to  his  sweetheart  the  legend 
which  gave  the  gorge  its  name.  Panther  Gorge  had 
an  ominous  sound,  enough  to  make  one  shudder  when 
hearing  it,  but  the  tradition  was  very  much  more  sin- 
ister. An  old  Indian,  possibly  Shaney  John,  told  it 
to  the  young  man's  grandfather  shortly  after  his  arrival 
at  the  forge  from  England.  It  had  made  a  deep  im- 
pression, it  was  always  repeated  in  the  family  circle  on 
Hallowe'en,  or  on  nights  when  the  winds  howled  down 
the  gorge,  as  if  to  sweep  the  house  and  stack  away. 
The  glade  was  as  dark  by  day  as  by  night,  and  many 
had  suggested  to  the  ironmasters  that  they  cut  the 
trees,  and  let  in  the  blessed  sunshine. 

But  the  Hasted  family  loved  traditions,  loved  things 
kept  as  they  were,  they  were  not  iconoclasts  in  any  sense 
of  the  word.  The  original  hemlocks  of  Panther  Gorge 
survived  several  ownerships,  not  coming  down  until  the 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  341 

last  year  of  the  nineteenth  century,  when  a  portable 
sawmill,  that  arch-foe  of  all  that  is  beautiful,  razed 
them,  every  one.  Several  forest  fires  have  swept  down 
the  gorge  since  then,  and  to-day  little  else  grows  there 
but  quaking-asp  and  fire  cherry,  and  those  folks  living 
near  at  hand  have  more  sunlight  than  they  want. 

As  young  Hasted  began  the  story  of  the  gorge  the 
fair  Mary  held  tighter  to  his  arm,  shuddering  partly 
from  cold  and  from  the  awesome  tale.  Many  years 
before,  about  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
there  was  a  certain  great  king  of  the  Tuscaroras,  thai 
warlike  tribe  which  came  to  the  Juniata  country  from 
the  South.  He  had  lost  his  wife,  and  being  still  a  man 
in  middle  life,  decided  to  take  unto  himself  a  second 
helpmate.  Hs  choice  fell  upon  a  beautiful  maiden  of 
the  tribe,  a  girl  only  half  his  age,  but  of  singular  in- 
telligence and  charm.  It  seemed  a  suitable  match,  for 
though  the  king  was  thirty-eight  and  his  bride  eighteen 
the  difference  in  years  was  apparently  compensated  by 
the  girl's  uncommon  mental  gifts.  All  seemed  happy 
for  a  time.  The  bride  appeared  to  adore  her  famous 
husband  and  there  was  no  doubt  but  that  the  king  was 
wildly  in  love  with  his  beautiful  young  mate.  But 
some  of  his  royal  household,  bolder  than  the  outsiders, 
whispered  to  him  that  when  he  was  away  on  hunting 
trips  the  bride  was  in  the  habit  of  strolling  in  the  dark 
gorge  above  the  regal  encampment.  One  of  the  house- 
hold, fearing  to  have  her  wander  there  alone,  lest  she 
be  devoured  by  the  wild  beasts  which  frequented  the 
spot,  followed  her  by  stealth,  to  act  as  a  secret  pro- 


342  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

lector.  To  the  faithful  henchman's  surprise  he  saw 
the  supposedly  devoted  bride  meeting  a  young  Indian 
of  the  tribe,  and  falling  in  his  arms  with  a  rapture  of 
love.  Though  he  could  scarcely  believe  his  eyes  the 
watcher  followed  her  on  every  occasion  when  she  went 
for  a  "solitary"  stroll  to  the  gorge.  On  the  last  three 
trips  before  the  king's  return  he  brought  two  fellow- 
guards  with  him  to  corroborate  the  information  which 
he  proposed  to  lay  before  the  august  monarch.  There 
was  no  doubt  of  the  truth  of  the  intrigue,  but  the  unso- 
phisticated Indians  almost  swooned  at  the  thought  that 
such  duplicity  could  exist  in  one  so  beautiful. 

On  the  king's  homecoming,  after  a  most  affectionate 
greeting  from  his  bride,  the  devoted  guard  took  him 
aside  and  imparted  the  awful  story.  The  king  was  so 
affected  that  he  reeled  and  fell  over  on  the  huge  pile  of 
dead  moose  which  had  been  sledded  to  the  royal  camp 
from  the  wilds  of  the  Seven  Mountains.  He  had 
planned  a  celebration  for  that  night  to  commemorate 
his  slaughter  of  wild  beasts,  but  instead  he  ordered 
that  the  queen  and  her  paramour  be  brought  before 
him.  Confronted  with  overwhelming  proofs  of  their 
guilt,  they  broke  down  and  confessed,  begging  for 
mercy.  But  the  king's  pride  had  been  wounded,  he 
had  an  example  to  set,  so  he  decreed  an  awful  punish- 
ment. The  royal  artificer  in  metals  was  sent  for  and 
ordered  to  forge  chains  for  the  hands  of  the  queen  and 
her  lover,  and  to  weld  their  legs  together  by  an  iron 
band.  Thus  manacled  together  they  were  led  into  the 
depths  of  the  gorge,  to  wander  about  in  the  gloom  or 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  343 

starve  to  death.  With  their  hands  chained  behind 
their  backs,  and  with  a  heavy  iron  band  between  the 
left  leg  of  the  queen  and  the  right  leg  of  her  lover,  they 
were  utterly  helpless.  Weeping  and  wailing,  they 
toddled  along,  until  night  added  more  terrible  black- 
ness to  the  scene.  Then  the  forests  resounded  with 
the  cries  of  panthers  and  wildcats,  the  howling  of  hun- 
gry wolves,  the  croaking  of  ravens  and  the  hooting  of 
owls. 

The  manacled  couple  knew  that  if  they  sat  down 
they  could  not  get  up  again,  so  as  a  measure  of  protec- 
tion they  kept  on  the  move.  But  one  of  the  panthers 
had  not  been  able  to  satisfy  his  hunger  that  day,  the 
supply  of  aged  or  sickly  deer  was  slack,  and  scenting 
the  human  captives,  smacked  his  grey  chops  in  antici- 
pation. Crawling  by  stealthy  tread  from  his  ledge  high 
up  on  the  side  of  the  gorge,  he  approached  the  helpless 
things  uttering  yells  of  mingled  hunger  and  joy.  When 
the  couple  heard  his  cries  growing  louder  they  knew 
that  their  doom  was  sealed.  . 

Standing  against  an  ancient  hemlock  they  awaited 
their  end  stoically.  With  a  ferocious  bound  of  twenty 
feet,  the  Pennsylvania  lion  was  upon  his  selected  vic- 
tim, the  Indian  youth.  The  force  of  the  savage  impact 
hurled  both  man  and  woman  to  the  ground,  and  the 
mammoth  cat  crouched  on  his  prey  like  a  vampire, 
literally  sucking  the  blood  from  the  wounds  made  by 
his  heavy  paws.  After  draining  the  youth  of  blood, 
he  ate  out  his  heart,  then  left  the  remainder  of  the 
mutilated  corpse  still  fastened  to  the  guilty  queen. 


344  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

The  horror  of  her  lover's  death,  her  proximity  to  his 
mangled  remains,  were  too  much  for  her  to  bear;  she 
lost  her  reason  completely.  Three  days  later  emissa- 
ries of  the  king  found  her  lying  in  the  woods,  muttering 
and  shrieking,  a  raving  maniac.  This  was  reported  to 
the  ruler,  who  ordered  that  the  dead  man  be  cut  loose 
from  her,  and  that  she  be  brought  back  to  the  camp. 
When  the  queen  was  placed  before  him  she  could  not 
recognize  him,  nor  talk  coherently.  She  was  given  her 
freedom,  and  remained  about  the  castle  for  a  dozen 
years,  a  helpless  imbecile,  until  finally  a  copperhead 
snake  bit  her  and  she  died.  From  this  tragedy  the 
dark  glen  was  ever  afterward  known  as  the  Panther 
Gorge,  although  the  first  Abraham  Hasted  had  killed 
an  eleven-foot  panther  there,  which  sprang  at  the  horse 
he  was  riding,  further  clinching  the  unsavory  title. 

According  to  the  Tuscaroras,  Indians  dying  in  guilt 
become  evil  spirits,  which  corrupt  and  render  miserable 
all  living  beings  falling  under  their  influence.  The 
ghosts  of  the  wicked  queen  and  her  lover  were  said  to 
still  haunt  the  Panther  Gorge,  and  any  person  feeling 
their  breaths  upon  them  would  have  an  uncontrollable 
desire  to  commit  crime,  to  be  at  enmity  with  society. 
Perhaps  these  unclean  spirits,  ever  seeking  to  transfer 
their  malevolence  to  others,  were  the  real  cause  of 
the  many  misfortunes  at  Creekglade  Forge. 

It  was  an  uncanny  story,  and  as  young  Hasted  fin- 
ished it  he  noticed  that  his  sweetheart  shook  like  an 
aspen  leaf.  She  drew  herself  further  away  from  him, 
as  if  to  conceal  her  trembling,  and  asked  him  to  take 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  345 

her  to  her  home,  that  she  felt  as  if  she  were  catching 
cold.  As  it  was  past  the  midnight  hour,  the  young 
man  hurried  her  to  her  humble  dweUing,  which  was  at 
the  extreme  end  of  the  working-men's  row. 

As  he  saw  her  to  the  door  the  shivering  girl  cast  a 
longing  glance  down  the  line  of  houses  to  the  largest 
one,  from  which  the  guests  of  the  Hallowe'en  party 
were  emerging  into  the  night  air,  wrapped  in  their 
cloaks. 

And  the  young  lover  remembered  as  he  walked 
away  that  she  had  not  thanked  him  for  a  pleasant  even- 
ing, she  was  too  pre-occupied  watching  the  light  which 
streamed  from  the  festive  door  further  down  the  row. 
He  felt  that  he,  the  son  of  proud  ironmasters,  had 
honored  the  girl,  the  daughter  of  a  stocker,  by  asso- 
ciating with  her — the  very  least  she  could  do  in  return 
would  be  to  express  some  word  of  appreciation.  But 
as  he  walked  on  he  reasoned  that  she  was  young,  and 
in  every  very  youthful  breast  is  a  desire  for  that  form 
of  gaiety  which  expresses  itself  in  bright  lights.  But 
his  pride  was  piqued,  though  he  strove  to  forget  it  in 
recollections  of  the  kisses  and  embraces  earlier  in  the 
evening. 

Then  came  the  melancholy  hooting  of  the  mysteri- 
ous owl,  which  evoked  memories  of  family  tragedies, 
of  old  sorrows.  He  left  the  big  hall  and  the  old  clock, 
and  opening  the  hall  door  was  at  the  foot  of  the  wind- 
ing stairs  which  led  to  the  upper  story.  He  ascended 
as  quietly  as  he  could,  pushing  open  the  door  of  his 
own  room,  which  was  in  utter  darkness.     One  window 


346  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

was  open  and  through  it  came  the  mournful  cries  of  the 
owl  out  there  in  the  park.  Would  it  never  stop,  was 
ever  an  owl  so  persistent  or  terrifying?  He  shut  the 
window  and,  undressing  hastily  in  the  dark,  climbed 
into  bed,  hiding  his  head  under  the  counterpanes. 

But  though  the  owl  soon  became  silent,  he  could  not 
sleep.  He  recalled  other  times  when  he  had  heard 
the  owl,  before  grave  illnesses  to  those  he  loved,  before 
financial  and  political  backsets  of  his  relatives.  He 
had  never  heard  it  except  previous  to  unhappy  or  hu- 
miliating episodes.  What  could  the  owl  be  after  now 
— perhaps  he  was  to  be  the  sufferer. 

He  had  one  thought  uppermost  in  his  mind,  his  love 
for  Mary  Metzger.  She  rose  before  his  bewildered 
vision,  an  image  of  loveliness.  Tall  and  very  slight, 
with  very  round  blue  eyes  and  a  mass  of  red-gold  hair, 
no  woman  like  her  existed  in  the  world;  she  must  be 
his,  and  soon.  Yet  he  had  never  discussed  marriage 
with  her,  though  often  expressing  the  extent  of  his  great 
love.  He  had  felt  that  he  could  not  mention  a  wed- 
ding until  some  plans  were  devised  to  gain  his  parents* 
consent.  Though  his  grandfather,  the  founder  of  the 
family  in  Pennsylvania,  had  married  a  milliner's 
helper,  his  father  had  the  strictest  ideas  about  caste,  as 
had  his  mother,  who  sprang  from  one  of  the  proudest 
Scotch-Irish  families  in  Lancaster  County. 

If  his  grandfather  had  done  it  why  not  he?  Mary 
Metzger  would  make  him  as  good  a  wife  as  his  milliner 
grandmother  had  been  to  the  first  Abraham  Hasted. 
But  had  that  marriage  turned  out  so  well?     Betsey 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  347 

Gisborne  had  made  a  good  wife  and  mother,  but  the 
earlier  attachment  in  her  Hfe  had  resulted  in  her  hus- 
band's foul  murder  in  Lewistown  Narrows.  As  a 
small  boy  he  had  looked  with  awe  at  the  printed 
dodger  offering  a  reward  of  five  hundred  dollars  in 
gold  for  information  leading  to  the  arrest  and  convic- 
tion of  the  murderer,  a  copy  of  which  still  hung  on  the 
wall  in  one  of  the  warehouses  back  of  the  company 
store. 

But  there  was  no  such  entanglement  in  Mary  Metz- 
ger's  life,  not  that  he  knew  of;  he  was  her  only  lover, 
therefore  history  could  not  repeat  itself.  He  fell  asleep 
just  at  daybreak,  but  before  he  did  he  was  full  of  cour- 
age to  face  his  parents  and  tell  them  of  his  love,  and 
demand  their  consent  to  his  early  marriage.  He  was 
of  the  same  mind  when  he  awoke.  His  father  had 
already  gone  to  the  office  when  he  got  down  stairs,  so 
he  decided  to  break  the  news  to  his  parents  in  the  din- 
ing-room after  supper,  while  they  indulged  their  fond- 
ness for  rich  cofFee.  All  day  long  he  was  moody  and 
uncommunicative;  his  parents  wondered  what  ailed 
him,  he  was  usually  so  bright  and  amiable.  He  was 
silent  all  through  the  supper,  which  was  served  in  the 
colonial  fashion,  with  tall  silver  candlesticks  on  the 
table. 

The  dining-room,  with  its  high  ceiling,  walnut 
wainscoting,  its  huge  black  marble  fireplace  in  which 
a  cheerful  beechwood  fire  was  blazing,  with  a  Louis 
XIV  clock  of  inlaid  tortoise  shell  on  the  mantel,  the 
massive  sideboard  covered  with  silver,  as  well  as  lustre. 


348  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

spode  and  Wedgewood  ware,  the  grim  ancestral  por- 
traits on  the  walls,  made  it  a  picturesque  setting  for  the 
scene  that  was  about  to  occur. 

After  the  meal,  when  the  younger  members  of  the 
family  withdrew,  young  Abraham  asked  to  have  a  few 
words  with  his  parents.  They  eyed  him  sharply,  his 
conduct  during  the  day  had  been  so  peculiar  that  they 
suspected  something  was  brewing.  The  young  man 
arose,  and  standing  with  one  hand  on  an  antique  glass 
fire  screen,  told  of  his  love  for  the  workman's  daughter 
and  his  determination  to  marry  her.  The  surprised 
parents  listened  attentively  until  he  had  finished,  when 
the  father  arose,  and  shaking  his  finger  at  the  son,  de- 
clared that  such  a  marriage  could  never  take  place,  he 
would  send  the  boy  to  Europe  as  soon  as  a  satisfactory 
compainon  could  be  found;  one  mesalliance  in  the 
family  was  enough  for  all  time.  Then  he  con- 
cluded by  saying  that  if  any  child  of  his  ever  con- 
tracted such  a  union  he  would  disown  him,  turn  him 
out  of  doors. 

The  boy's  temper  was  under  poor  control,  and  pick- 
ing up  the  glass  screen,  which  his  mother  prized  as  her 
favorite  antique,  he  hurled  it  at  his  father  and  strode 
from  the  room.  The  screen  crashed  into  a  dozen 
pieces,  and  the  mother  screamed  with  terror  and  grief. 
Even  before  reaching  his  room  young  Abraham  re- 
pented of  his  rash  act,  but  it  was  too  late,  he  was  an 
outlaw  with  his  parents,  his  chances  of  marrying  Mary 
Metzger  seemed  remoter  than  ever.  He  remained  in 
his  apartment  all  evening,  wishing  that  he  could  undo 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  349 

his  unseemly  act,  angry  at  himself;  he  sometimes  felt 
that  the  owl's  curse  was  already  upon  him. 

The  next  day  he  wandered  about  the  house  sheep- 
ishly; he  neither  spoke  to  his  parents,  nor  did  they  to 
him.  He  tried  to  formulate  some  plan  for  the  future, 
but  his  mind  was  a  blank.  Late  in  the  afternoon  he 
slipped  into  the  dining-room  and  stood  before  the  ele- 
gant portrait  of  his  grandmother — she  who  had  been 
a  milliner's  apprentice — that  portrait  which  was  con- 
sidered Eichholtz's  masterpiece.  He  compared  it  fea- 
ture by  feature  with  his  mental  conception  of  his  own 
lowly  sweetheart.  The  former  Betsey  Gisborne  had  a 
broader  face,  a  bigger,  stronger  nose,  more  soul  to  the 
lips,  more  firmness  to  the  chin,  there  was  a  fine  pallor  to 
the  complexion,  in  truth  it  was  a  remarkable  counte- 
nance, one  woman  in  a  hundred  thousand.  Though 
he  had  to  admit  to  himself  that  his  grandmother,  at  al- 
most the  same  age  as  his  beloved,  had  the  stronger  fea- 
tures and  none  of  the  insipid  pink  and  white  beauty  of 
his  own  love,  yet  he  swore  to  himself  that  he  liked 
Mary's  type  by  far  the  best.  Looking  at  that  portrait 
aroused  in  him  a  fresh  desire  to  see  his  Mary  again, 
and  tell  her  what  had  happened.  Perhaps  she  could 
help  him  with  a  plan,  bring  some  ray  of  hope  into  the 
question.  He  had  made  no  effort  to  see  her  all  day, 
but  it  might  be  that  she  would  be  looking  for  him  at 
their  favorite  trysting  place  in  Panther  Gorge.  He 
had  made  no  appointment,  yet  some  instinct  told  him 
that  she  would  be  there. 

It  was  All  Souls'  night,  when  ghosts  were  abroad, 


350  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

and  he  hated  to  think  of  her  wandering  by  herself  in 
that  glen  tenanted  by  the  evil  spirit  of  the  Tuscarora 
king's  false  wife.  After  supper  he  went  to  his  room, 
and  then  down  stairs  by  a  back  way,  and  crept  out  into 
the  gloom.  It  was  a  weirdsome  night,  with  winds 
rattling  the  leafless  boughs  of  the  trees,  and  not  a  star 
or  light  visible. 

The  path  to  the  glen  was  so  familiar  that  he  lost  no 
time  in  getting  there.  To  his  surprise  he  saw  a  female 
figure  walking  there,  carrying  a  lantern.  Coming 
nearer  he  recognized  the  tall  reed-like  form  of  Mary 
Metzger.  He  rushed  up  to  her  with  outstretched  arms, 
"Oh,  what  a  joyful  surprise,"  he  said. 

The  girl  stopped  and  looked  at  him  in  a  confused, 
nervous  sort  of  way.  Her  lips  moved  as  if  she  wanted 
to  say  something,  but  she  remained  silent. 

"Why  you  don't  seem  glad  to  see  me,  even  though 
you  were  out  here  waiting  for  me." 

To  this  the  girl  replied  that  she  was  only  out  for  a 
little  fresh  air,  that  she  must  be  flying  home.  Though 
this  was  the  first  time  that  she  had  ever  seemed  in  a 
hurry  to  leave  him,  he  offered  to  accompany  her  back  to 
her  parents'  cottage.  They  walked  along  in  silence, 
down  the  glen.  Never  had  the  roar  of  the  cataract 
seemed  so  loud  to  Abraham  Hasted.  Near  the  edge 
of  the  forest  footsteps  were  heard  on  the  frozen  earth. 

"V/ho  can  that  be  at  this  hour?"  said  the  young 
man.  Before  he  could  say  another  word  he  was  seized 
by  the  throat  by  a  short,  thick-set  youth  of  about  his 
own  age,  whom  he  recognized  as  Simon  Wagner,  a 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  351 

clerk  in  the  company  store.  Instinctively  he  had  never 
liked  this  youth,  who  was  surly  and  sullen,  and  whose 
flat  face  was  scarred  by  many  pock  marks. 

"Damn  you,"  said  the  clerk,  choking  him  tighter, 
"can't  a  fellow  meet  his  girl  without  a  fice  like  you 
coming  on  the  scene." 

And  he  shook  the  young  gentleman  as  a  terrier 
would  a  rat.  Holding  on  with  a  viselike  grip,  he 
rambled  on,  cursing  between  every  sentence.  "You 
had  a  foolish  notion  that  this  girl  cared  for  you. 
Shucks,  she  hated  you;  she  merely  wanted  to  see  how 
far  you  would  go,  you  with  all  your  money  and  aristo- 
cratic blood,  you  are  no  better  than  me  or  her,  not  half 
so  good  I  think.  Stick  to  your  own  kind,  and  I'll  stick 
to  mine." 

These  insults  were  too  much  for  young  Hasted  to 
bear.  Long  and  slim,  he  was  yet  sinewy  and  brave. 
Swinging  with  his  right,  he  caught  the  low-browed  fel- 
low under  the  jaw,  and  sent  him  sprawling.  As  he 
fell  Mary,  who  had  remained  silent  thus  far,  uttered  a 
piercing  scream,  wild  and  terrible  as  a  panther's,  mak- 
ing the  whole  glen  resound  with  her  anguish.  As  he 
fell,  Wagner's  head  struck  a  sharp  rock  and  he  lay 
motionless.  Not  knowing  whether  he  had  killed  the 
wretch,  and  caring  less.  Hasted  strode  away  down  the 
path  toward  the  now  sleeping  community.  He  had 
gone  about  a  hundred  yards  when  he  heard  the  patter 
of  small  feet  back  of  him.  Mary,  out  of  breath  cuid 
gasping,  was  at  his  side. 

"Oh,  Abraham,  are  you  going  to  leave  me  alone 


352  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

here  in  the  woods  with  that  dying  man?"  she  cried. 
The  young  gentleman  angrily  brushed  her  aside, 
continuing  his  way.  The  girl  followed  a  few  paces 
in  the  rear,  like  a  starving  wolf.  At  the  door  of  the 
cottage  where  she  resided  Hasted  stopped  and  rapped, 
until  he  had  aroused  her  parents.  Then  he  continued 
along  the  cinder  path  to  the  front  gate  of  the  park.  As 
he  entered  bravely  he  saw  a  light  shining  from  his 
mother's  window.  He  thought  of  a  quotation  which 
had  impressed  him,  "No  one  can  injure  him  who  has 
not  first  injured  himself."  We  make  by  our  mistakes 
and  misdeeds  the  monsters  which  torture  us  through 
life. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  353 


XXIV. 

MERITHEW. 

THE  OLD   stonemason's   STORY. 

THERE  was  an  apple  butter  frolic  at  the  old  log 
house  at  the  mouth  of  Detwiler.  The  few  neigh- 
bors in  that  lonely  mountain  vale  had  all  collected 
at  "Singing"  Shaffer's  to  put  the  work  through  with  a 
rush.  Shaffer,  whose  real  Christian  name  was 
Sephares,  was  called  "Singing"  because  he  had  a 
cousin  of  the  same  name  in  Stone  Valley,  whose  vocal 
gifts  and  religious  inclinations  were  not  so  pronounced. 
Likewise  in  adjacent  valleys  were  to  be  found  Bill 
Smith  and  "Lying  Bill"  Smith,  Sam  Kline  and  "Red 
Headed"  Sam  Kline,  Jake  Stouffer  and  "Mason 
John"  Stouffer. 

On  this  night  of  the  apple  butter  frolic,  by  the  un- 
steady light  of  tallow  dips  and  lamps,  Farmer  Shaffer 
was  assisted  by  his  good  wife,  his  three  girls  and  two 
boys,  Simon  Freedley,  an  old  trapper,  his  wife  and 
daughter,  Simeon  Plankenhorn,  a  retired  timber 
cruiser,  and  wife,  and  last,  but  not  least,  an  old  stone- 
mason who  was  visiting  at  the  Freedley  home. 

In  the  mountains  a  stranger's  name  was  not  the  first 
thing  sought  for;  his  other  characteristics  were  studied 
and  commented  upon,  then  if  he  passed  muster  his 
name  was  asked.     For  that  reason  the  relator  of  what 


354  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

happened  at  the  frolic  had  not  thought  to  inquire  the 
old  man's  name.  "The  Old  Stonemason"  was  a  good 
enough  name! 

One  of  "Singing"  Shaffer's  boys,  a  lad  of  twenty- 
one,  inherited  his  father's  musical  taste,  being  some- 
what of  a  violinist.  And  he  was  a  poor  "pealer,"  con- 
sequently his  share  of  the  evening's  activities  was  fur- 
nishing snatches  of  old-fashioned  melodies,  like  "Biddy 
Martin,"  "The  Camptown  Races"  and  the  "Arkansas 
Traveler,"  on  his  weather-beaten  Stradivarius — an  in- 
strument by  the  way  of  probable  authenticity.  At  any 
rate  it  had  been  in  the  Shaffer  family  over  one  hun- 
dred years;  burned  in  the  wood  inside  of  the  case  was 
"Antonius  Stradivarius,  Cremona,  1  739." 

Simon  Freedley  was  a  man  about  seventy  years  of 
age.  In  his  youth  he  had  worked  in  Clearfield  County 
and  in  the  Snow  Shoe  region  making  square  timber. 
In  the  camps  he  had  met  the  stonemason;  they  had 
worked  together  as  "buddies,"  had  listened  to  the 
Askey  boys  tell  panther  stories  until  their  hair  stood  on 
end.  They  themselves  had  heard  the  blood  curdling 
growls  of  the  Pennsylvania  lion  on  more  than  one  oc- 
casion about  the  licks  and  sugar  camps.  Once  when 
Freedley  had  been  watching  a  lick  near  Black  Moshan- 
non  he  had  fallen  asleep.  During  his  slumbers  a  pan- 
ther had  crept  up  to  him  and  sizing  him  up  as  a  likely 
meal  for  his  mate  and  little  ones,  had  covered  him  with 
leaves  so  stealthily  as  not  to  awaken  him.  Then  the  giant 
cat  had  slipped  away  into  the  forest  to  bring  his  family 
circle  to  the  royal  feast.    Some  good  angel  was  watch- 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  355 

ing  over  the  young  Nimrod,  for  he  awakened,  finding 
himself  lying  in  a  gully  by  the  log  on  which  he  had 
been  watching,  and  all  covered  with  leaves.  Though 
it  was  in  the  fall  of  the  year  he  could  not  see  why  the . 
leaves  should  fall  so  fast.  He  was  not  long  in  grasping 
the  situation;  he  was  to  be  a  panther  family's  "mid- 
night lunch."  He  scrambled  to  his  feet,  shook  off  the 
leaves,  and  none  too  soon.  In  the  darkness  he  saw  a 
pair  of  gleaming  eyes,  not  fifty  feet  away.  He  aimed 
his  rifle  and  fired.  Probably  he  missed  a  vital  spot, 
but  the  panther  uttered  a  piercing  yell,  which  was  an- 
swered by  another  still  further  back  in  the  gloom — 
then  all  was  still.  He  had  made  a  lucky  escape  and 
became  the  hero  of  the  square  timber  camp. 

Then  the  story  was  told  how  two  boys  from  Stone 
Valley,  Joe  Emig  and  Ben  Long,  when  on  a  rabbit 
hunt  had  seen  a  panther  stretched  out  on  a  fallen  tree 
right  there  in  Detwiler  in  the  fall  of  1911.  Hunting 
stories  led  to  more  personal  narratives.  The  old  stone- 
mason told  the  story  of  his  life,  from  the  day  of  his 
birth  at  the  foot  of  Thick  Head,  how  his  mother  had 
run  away  and  his  father,  marrying  again,  had  "put 
him  out"  with  first  one  backwoods  family,  then  an- 
other. He  had  been  abused  and  starved,  made  to  do 
two  grown  men's  work,  had  run  away,  been  recap- 
tured, endured  all  the  hardships  that  could  befall  a 
friendless  boy.  Gradually  he  drifted  out  of  the 
Juniata  country,  into  Clinton  and  Clearfield  Counties, 
where  he  worked  for  John  Rhone,  whose  mysterious 
disappearance  in  the  fall  of  1898  was  the  wonder  of 


356  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

all  of  Central  Pennsylvania,  then  to  Potter  and  Tioga 
Counties,  finding  life  no  easier  among  the  shrewd  Yan- 
kees in  the  "Northern  Tier." 

.  When  he  was  about  thirteen  years  of  age  he  was 
placed  with  a  farmer  in  one  of  the  northern  counties  to 
be  "general  utility"  on  a  two-hundred  acre  dairy  farm. 
It  was  a  remote  spot,  several  miles  from  a  village,  in  a 
country  made  up  of  hilly  fields  interspersed  with 
patches  of  virgin  hemlock  and  sugar  trees.  It  was  a 
typical  farm  of  that  day  and  locality.  The  house,  a 
long,  low  structure,  painted  white,  stood  in  a  yard 
about  two  hundred  feet  from  the  public  road,  sur- 
rounded by  giant  maples.  A  double  path  of  flag  stones 
led  from  it  to  a  double  gate.  Across  the  road  was  the 
barn,  a  long  structure,  with  the  gable  end  facing  the 
road.  Below  the  barn  the  hill  sloped  off  abruptly;  it 
always  looked  dark  down  where  the  public  road  led, 
there  were  many  maple  trees  and  beyond  a  dismal 
swamp. 

In  the  springtime  when  the  boy  arrived  the  nights 
reverberated  with  the  pipings  of  the  h^lodes,  the  cries 
of  the  screech  owls.  The  most  cheerful  night  sound 
came  from  the  whippoorwills. 

The  family  consisted  of  the  farmer  and  his  wife,  a 
sour,  crusty  old  couple — Dutch  people  in  a  Yankee 
community — two  sons,  one  of  them  a  helpless  cripple 
since  the  battle  of  Antietam,  it  was  a  year  or  two  after 
the  close  of  the  Civil  War,  a  daughter  about  seventeen 
years  of  age  and  a  hired  girl.  The  last  named  was  a 
pretty  girl,  an  orphan  like  the  hired  boy,  a  girl  with 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  357 

brown  wavy  hair,  blue  eyes  and  refined  features,  who 
might  have  shared  the  ill-treatment  so  generally  meted 
out  were  it  not  that  she  was  a  prime  favorite  with  the 
churlish  old  farmer's  daughter. 

The  hired  girl  was  kind  to  the  unfortunate  boy;  it 
was  the  only  bright  spot  in  his  otherwise  dreary  exist- 
ence. There  were  as  many  cows  to  milk  as  he  was 
years  old,  mares  and  colts  to  care  for,  wood  to  cut, 
water  to  draw,  to  say  nothing  of  other  and  arduous 
tasks  too  numerous  to  mention.  As  the  dreary  days 
went  by  he  hoped  that  he  might  die  to  escape  the  awful 
drudgery.  At  first  he  planned  to  run  away,  but  it  was 
more  difficult  than  in  a  wilder  country;  all  the  farmers 
were  friends  and  aided  one  another  as  in  a  freemasonry 
restoring  lost  "chattels."  As  this  seemed  out  of  the 
question  hope  died  out  of  his  comf)osition ;  he  was  in 
a  hopeless  treadmill.  Occasionally  when  he  went  to 
the  village  to  help  unload  a  wagon  of  buckwheat  or  a 
dray  of  cheese,  he  met  other  farm  boys  like  himself  and 
exchanged  impressions  with  them.  Several  of  them, 
when  they  learned  where  he  worked,  advised  him  to  be 
cautious  about  going  out  at  night,  to  beware  of  the 
ghost.  But  the  boy  was  too  tired  and  dispirited  to  be 
afraid,  he  usually  forgot  all  about  the  gruesome  hints 
by  the  time  he  was  back  at  the  gloomy  old  place.  He 
worked  hard  all  spring,  he  worked  harder  all  summer, 
the  fall  work  promised  to  be  the  most  severe  of  all. 
And  the  winter  would  come  around  with  logs  to  be 
gotten  in,  the  most  gruelling  work  of  the  category. 

One  evening  the  farmer  lost  a  big  work  horse  from 


358  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

colic;  to  him  it  was  almost  a  tragedy.  The  animal 
was  especially  needed  in  one  of  the  teams  for  the 
winter's  lumbering  operations.  A  few  nights  after  this 
misfortune  the  old  man  and  his  sons  had  driven  in  the 
spring  wagon  to  an  adjoining  hamlet  to  look  at  an- 
other horse.  The  hired  boy,  as  usual,  was  left  to  do 
the  night's  work,  it  looked  before  him  a  monumental 
trial,  especially  the  milking  of  the  baker's  dozen  of 
cows,  the  feeding  of  a  score  of  pigs,  the  feeding  and 
bedding  of  mares  and  colts,  sheep  and  poultry,  wood 
cutting  and  endless  other  duties.  For  a  moment  he 
stood  in  the  gathering  twilight  in  the  open  barn  door, 
then  set  to  work  with  a  will. 

It  was  long  after  dark  when  he  finished,  and  with 
weary  tread  he  started  across  the  road  and  opened  the 
front  gate.  As  he  did  so  he  glanced  up,  being  sur- 
prised to  see  a  tall  slim  figure  dressed  in  black  coming 
down  one  of  the  paths  from  the  old  house.  Too  sur- 
prised to  speak,  he  stood  motionless,  with  one  hand  on 
the  gate  latch.  As  the  figure  drew  near  he  could  just 
make  out  that  he  was  very  tall  and  wore  a  suit  of  even- 
ing clothes,  with  white  cuffs  and  shirt;  the  long  tails  of 
the  coat  flapped  about  the  thin  legs  in  the  night  wind. 
As  the  figure  passed  out  of  the  other  side  of  the  double 
gate  it  glanced  at  him.  He  was  too  frightened  to 
scrutinize  the  features,  all  he  noticed  was  that  the  face 
was  very  white.  Silently  it  passed  through  the  gate, 
stepped  boldly  into  the  middle  of  the  road,  and  with 
rapid  strides  disappeared  below  the  hill  among  the 
dark,    soughing    maple    trees.      The    frightened    boy 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  359 

passed  in  the  gate,  the  cold  perspiration  was  standing 
out  on  his  forehead,  his  legs  trembled  as  he  walked 
along  the  flags  toward  the  side  door  of  the  house.  He 
had  a  strong  feeling  that  he  had  seen  a  ghost,  especially 
as  it  was  the  night  of  the  second  of  October,  the  be- 
ginning of  the  ghost  month,  which  lasts  until  All  Souls' 
night,  when  all  the  spirits  of  the  dead  can  return  from 
the  realms  be^^ond  space  and  time.  All  the  family 
were  in  bed  when  he  got  to  the  house.  Sorrowfully 
he  picked  up  his  old  tin  lantern  and  climbed  the  ladder 
to  his  bed  in  the  stuffy  little  cubbyhole  of  a  room  above 
the  summer  kitchen.  He  was  too  tired  to  think  further 
of  ghosts  and  was  soon  asleep. 

In  the  morning  he  thought  it  best  not  to  broach  the 
subject  to  the  family — it  might  be  a  sore  subject — he 
had  heard  that  it  was  in  most  "haunted"  families,  and 
for  a  boy  of  thirteen  he  was  steeped  in  worldly  wisdom. 
Three  weeks  passed,  during  which  time  he  saw  no 
more  of  the  ghost.  All  he  saw  was  work,  a  mountain 
of  work. 

One  evening  when  he  was  alone  at  the  barn,  the 
farmer  and  his  second  son  had  driven  to  the  village  to 
visit  the  crippled  boy,  who  now  clerked  in  the  general 
store — they  always  contrived  to  get  away  at  work 
time — he  stood  for  a  moment  at  the  barn  door  gazing 
out  into  the  fast-gathering  dusk.  Suddenly  at  his  side 
he  noticed  the  tall  slim  form  of  a  young  man  a  lad  of 
about  eighteen,  dressed  in  a  black  broadcloth  suit,  a 
size  or  two  too  big  for  him,  with  long  white  cuffs,  a 
high  white  collar  and  a  ruffled  shirt  front.    The  autumn 


360  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

wind  was  blowing  his  long  curly  dark  hair,  his  face 
was  ghastly  pale  the  deep-set  eyes  were  very  large  and 
black.  He  was  sure  it  was  the  same  figure  that  had 
passed  him  at  the  gate.  The  young  man  spoke  in  such 
a  pleasant  tone  of  voice  to  the  bewildered  farm  boy 
that  he  lost  all  his  sense  of  fear.  He  began  the  con- 
versation by  inquiring  if  there  was  any  chance  to  ob- 
tain work  on  the  farm.  The  boy  replied  that  he 
doubted  if  there  was  any,  but  he  could  not  answer  for 
certain  until  the  farmer  returned  from  the  village. 
Then  the  stranger  asked  if  he  could  help  the  boy  with 
his  evening  work  which  offer,  needless  to  say,  was 
gladly  accepted.  The  black-garbed  youth  was  a 
nimble  workman,  belying  his  frail,  consumptive  ap- 
pearance. He  assisted  with  everything,  even  to  milk- 
ing the  "lion's  share"  of  the  baker's  dozen  of  cows. 
Then  he  helped  the  boy  carry  the  milk  pails  across  the 
road  to  the  spring  house. 

After  the  work  was  over  the  lad  invited  the  stranger 
into  the  house,  intending  to  share  his  bowl  of  bread 
and  milk  with  him.  The  old  lady  had  retired,  but  in 
the  sitting  room  adjoining  the  kitchen  there  was  a  light, 
which  disclosed  the  farmer's  daughter  and  the  hired 
girl  before  a  mirror  combing  their  dark  tresses  prepara- 
tory to  going  to  bed.  By  the  feeble  rays  of  the  tin 
lantern  the  farm  boy  endeavored  to  find  the  bread,  but 
before  doing  so  he  asked  the  unknown  his  name,  so 
that  he  might  introduce  him  to  the  girls.  The  gaunt 
youth  said  that  his  name  was  Merithew.  It  seemed 
an  odd  name,  but  the  boy  took  him  to  the  door  of  the 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  361 

sitting  room  and  presented  him  to  the  young  women, 
asking  him  to  make  himself  comfortable  while  he  got 
together  a  little  supper.  The  stranger  barely  nodded 
to  the  girls,  and  passing  through  the  long,  low-ceilinged 
room,  seated  himself  on  an  old  horsehair  sofa.  He 
was  sitting  there  with  his  head  hanging  and  his  long 
white-cuffed  hands  folded  across  his  breast  when  the 
farm  boy  last  saw  him.  The  girls,  rather  timid,  turned 
their  backs  on  him  and  resumed  combing  their  wavy 
dark  hair.  Barely  two  minutes  had  passed  when  the 
hired  boy  heard  the  girls  scream  out  in  terror.  Rest- 
ing his  crock  of  milk  on  the  water  bench,  he  hurried  to 
the  sitting  room.  The  girls  were  white  with  terror. 
Hastily  they  explained  to  him  that  the  young  man  to 
whom  they  had  been  introduced  had  vanished  when 
they  turned  their  backs  for  a  minute  to  comb  their 
hair. 

Who  was  the  strange  creature,  why  had  he  acted  so 
oddly,  they  excitedly  demanded.  The  boy  tried  to 
calm  their  fears,  saying  that  he  supposed  the  stranger, 
feeling  bashful,  had  slipped  out  through  the  kitchen, 
while  he  had  been  busy  finding  the  bread.  The  girls 
accepted  the  explanation,  and  to  the  boy's  relief  did 
not  mention  the  incident  to  the  family  next  morning. 
Perhaps  they  dreaded  a  drubbing  if  they  told  of  hav- 
ing had  a  strange  male  caller  after  night.  But  the  boy 
could  not  shake  off  the  memory  of  the  hard-working 
but  illusive  Merithew.  He  did  not  see  him  again  until 
about  three  weeks  later,  on  a  cold  wintry  night,  when 
all  the  family  had  driven  to  the  village  to  attend  some 


362  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

special  semce  at  the  church.  On  that  occasion  Meri- 
thew  appeared  at  the  bam  door,  asked  if  he  might 
help  With  the  evening's  work,  which  offer  was  again 
accepted.  But  after  working  splendidly  he  declined 
the  invitation  to  go  to  the  house  to  get  a  bite  of  supper. 
He  left  the  boy  at  the  double  gate  and  vanished  in  the 
gloom  below  the  hill. 

One  night  about  Christmas  time  the  boy  was  alone 
again;  the  family  of  course  at  church.  Merithew  ap- 
peared, helped  with  the  work  and  vanished.  About 
three  weeks  after  that,  in  mid-winter,  the  hired  boy  and 
the  farmer's  son  were  milking  in  the  cow  barn.  It  was 
almost  dark  and  bitterly  cold.  Suddenly  the  form  of 
Merithew  appeared  out  of  the  floor  back  of  the  cows. 
The  animals  became  visibly  agitated,  shaking  their 
stanchioned  heads,  and  switching  their  long  tails.  Some 
of  them  bellowed  mournfully.  Merithew  seemed 
utterly  unconcerned,  and  began  conversing  with  the 
boy  in  his  low  musical  voice.  At  the  far  end  of 
the  stalls,  on  the  other  side  of  the  double  mangers, 
the  farmer's  son  noted  the  unseem.ly  racket  and 
heard  a  stranger's  voice.  In  his  usual  surly  tones  he 
demanded  to  know  with  whom  the  hired  boy  was 
speaking. 

"I'm  talking  with  Merithew,"  said  the  lad  inno- 
cently. The  farmer's  son  rose  up  from  his  milking, 
shaking  like  a  reed,  then  he  stooped  down,  picked  up 
the  milking  stool  and  ran  down  the  entry,  hurling  the 
stool  in  the  direction  from  which  the  strange  voice 
emanated. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  363 

"My  God,"  cried  the  excited  rustic,  "don't  you 
know  you're  talking  with  a  ghost?" 

As  he  said  these  words  the  tall,  grim  form  of  Meri- 
thew  disappeared  down  through  the  barn  floor. 
Barely  had  it  vanished  when  the  nervous  farmer  ran 
down  the  entry  and  out  of  the  bam  leaving  the  little 
boy  to  finish  the  milking  alone.  The  boy,  though 
badly  frightened,  held  his  post,  but  in  his  heart  came 
a  new  courage,  a  new  determination,  a  desire  put  there 
by  the  ghost  of  Merithew  to  make  his  escape  from  the 
hateful  surroundings.  Like  a  flash  of  divination  he 
saw  that  Merithew  had  come  to  help  him,  perhaps  was 
the  shade  of  some  former  farm  boy  worked  to  death  or 
into  consumption  there  or  in  the  neighborhood ;  he  must 
get  away  before  too  late.  All,  even  the  hired  girl,  had 
gone  to  bed  when  he  got  to  the  gloomy  old  house. 
The  next  morning  was  Sunday,  and  they  all  were  off 
to  church  while  he  Was  about  his  usual  tasks.  But 
when  the  carry-all  v,"as  lost  to  sight  up  the  hilly  road 
the  boy  dropped  his  pitchfork  and  struck  out  manfully 
across  the  fields.  Soon  he  was  in  the  shelter  of  a  grove 
of  dense  hemlocks  and  maples.  He  made  good  time, 
and  when  night  fell  he  was  on  the  Susquehanna  water- 
shed, determined  never  to  return. 

But  he  was  apprehended,  nevertheless,  and  might 
have  been  returned  to  the  odious  surroundings  had  it 
not  been  for  a  friendly  Irish  farmer  who  fought  his 
battle  for  him,  and  with  whom  he  remained  for  several 
years.  But  though  lastingly  grateful  to  his  staunch 
friend,  in  his  heart  of  hearts  he  always  cherished  the 


364  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

memory  of  his  real  deliverer,  Merithew.  The  pale 
wraith  had  awakened  in  him  a  real  desire  to  escape, 
had  put  hope  back  in  his  breast  when  it  had  almost 
flickered  out  in  the  darkness  of  wretched  drudgery. 
He  had  sent  him  out  into  a  bigger  and  better  world, 
where  work  had  its  advantages,  where  justice,  kindli- 
ness and  right  prevailed,  all  elements  of  that  spiritual 
realm  from  whence  Merithew  had  come. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  365 


XXV. 

GREEN  GAP. 

THE  LAST  MASSACRE  OF  THE  JUNIATA. 

"^LEM"  HERLACHER  is  fond  of  saying  that 
I  if  the  last  Indian  massacre  in  Pennsylvania  did 

not  occur  in  the  Juniata  Valley,  the  victims 
were  at  least  residents  of  its  w^atershed.  History  fails 
to  record  the  story  of  this  final  bloodthirsty  act  of  the 
rapacious  redmen.  Jones  makes  no  mention  of  it,  nor 
does  Rupp,  or  Sherman  Day  or  Meginness.  Yet  the 
great  number  of  reliable  persons  who  have  heard  the 
story  from  their  parents  and  grandparents  amply  attest 
to  its  correctness. 

The  concensus  of  opinion  places  the  date  of  the 
last  massacre  as  late  as  the  second  month  of  the  year 
1601,  or  long  after  peace  was  declared  between 
Great  Britain  and  the  Colonies,  and  over  a  year  after 
the  death  of  General  George  Washington.  At  that 
time  Thomas  McKean  was  Governor  of  the  Com- 
monwealth, Edward  Shippen  was  chief  justice  of 
the  Supreme  Court,  John  P.  G.  Muhlenberg  and 
William  Bingham  were  the  United  States  senators, 
all  able,  energetic  men,  well  capable  of  coping  with 
such  a  situation.  But  the  massacre  evidently  es- 
caped their  immediate  attention,  and  thereby  missed 


366  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

its   chance   of   finding    a   place   in    recorded   history. 

TTie  scene  of  the  massacre  of  the  Juniata  citizens. 
Green  Gap,  in  the  east  end  of  Sugar  Valley,  in  Clin- 
ton County,  is  remarkable  in  several  ways.  The  larg- 
est tree  in  the  valley,  a  white  pine,  which  when  cut 
some  forty  years  ago  was  measured  by  the  venerable 
Daniel  Mark  at  seven  feet  across  the  stump,  stood  at 
the  mouth  of  the  gap,  in  height  it  was  the  same  as  the 
pine  cut  on  the  campus  of  Dartmouth  College — 270 
feet;  the  last  native  elks  in  Sugar  Valley  were  slain 
there  by  Major  Philip  Wohlfart  and  Jacob  Franck  in 
1835,  some  of  the  last  wolves  native  to  the  valley  had 
their  dens  there,  until  slain  by  David  Zimmerman 
about  1847. 

Though  wolves  made  incursions  into  the  valley  at 
much  later  dates,  in  fact  in  the  hard  winter  of  1857,  ac- 
cording to  Henry  Wise,  they  held  a  battle  royal  cunong 
themselves  near  Eastville,  devouring  one  of  their  num- 
ber, the  brutes  wiped  out  by  Nimrod  Zimmerman  were 
the  last  "resident"  wolves  in  the  "East  End."  The 
story  of  the  destruction  of  these  "last  wolves"  is  of 
more  than  passing  interest.  Shortly  after  David  Zim- 
merman's arrival  in  the  valley,  he  took  unto  himself  a 
charming  bride,  and  leaving  the  parental  log  castle,  at 
Tea  Springs,  where  four  counties.  Union,  Lycoming, 
Clinton  and  Centre  corner,  he  moved  to  a  more  se- 
cluded nook  in  the  vast  wilderness.  Shortly  after  his 
arrival  at  the  new  home  his  bride  showed  him  the  tracks 
of  two  wolves  in  the  snow  near  the  sheep-fold.  This 
augured  ill  for  his  stock-raising  intentions,  so  he  deter- 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  367 

mined  to  rid  the  neighborhood  of  these  "long-tailed 
hunters,"  as  the  old  settlers  termed  the  tribe  of  canis 
lupus.  With  the  aid  of  his  faithful  dogs  he  tracked 
the  wolves,  a  male  and  a  female,  to  a  rocky  den  in  the 
depths  of  Green  Gap,  several  miles  from  his  place  of 
residence.  Indications  pointed  to  the  presence  of  pups 
in  the  cavern,  so  the  intrepid  hunter  placed  himself  on 
the  watch,  eventually  shooting  the  she-wolf.  Then 
he  dug  out  the  cave,  finding  ten  new-born  pups.  It 
was  in  the  month  of  April.  Snow  was  still  on  the 
ground,  as  is  often  the  case  in  high  altitudes  at  this 
period  of  the  year. 

After  killing  the  pups  the  hunter  resumed  his  vigil 
for  the  dog-wolf,  but  the  wily  beast  apparently  de- 
serted the  country.  Though  a  trifle  disappointed  at 
not  having  wiped  out  this  entire  wolfish  family,  Zim- 
merman returned  to  his  cabin,  presenting  his  bride  with 
the  rich  brown-black  pelt  of  the  dead  she-wolf.  Peace 
reigned  about  the  secluded  cabin  for  several  days  and 
nights.  At  length  an  extremely  cold  night  set  in, 
coupled  with  a  black  frost. 

The  Zimmerman  cabin,  built  of  yellow  pine  logs, 
was  a  one-story  structure,  and  the  bedroom  window, 
always  kept  open  at  night,  was  but  a  couple  of  feet 
above  the  level  of  the  ground.  The  young  couple  had 
retired  after  a  hard  day's  work,  and  were  about  falling 
into  a  doze  when  they  heard  the  yelping  of  their  dogs 
in  the  yard,  which  usually  betokened  the  presence  of 
some  skulking  animal.  After  a  few  minutes  a  louder 
and  fiercer  howl  came  from  the  giant  pines  at  the  edge 


368  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

of  the  clearing.  Louder  and  louder  it  grew,  until  the 
dogs  abashed  by  the  comparison  lapsed  into  silence. 

Zimmerman  rose  up  in  bed,  and  looked  out  into  the 
clearing,  which  was  clearly  visible  in  the  frigid  star- 
light. In  the  open  lot  stood  the  burly  form  of  a  giant 
dog-wolf,  with  mane  and  tail  erect  and  bristling.  It 
seemed  to  be  barking  an  open  defiance  to  the  dwellers 
in  the  lonely  cabin.  The  hunter  calm  and  collected, 
reached  for  his  gun,  his  favorite  "swivel  breech,"  which 
lay  on  the  deal  floor  by  the  four-poster.  The  bride 
caught  him  by  the  other  arm,  imploring  him  not  to  get 
up  and  do  battle  with  the  wolf.  The  bridegroom  whis- 
pered that  he  had  no  such  intention,  but  he  wanted  to 
be  able  to  protect  his  bride  and  self  in  case  the  wolf  at- 
tempted to  spring  through  the  open  window.  But  the 
wolf  showed  no  desire  to  come  closer.  His  howl,  at 
first  loud  and  defiant,  struck  off  into  a  melancholy  key, 
a  sobbing  song  of  loneliness  and  misery.  From  defiance 
his  song  had  become  a  paean  of  sorrow  over  the  inevi- 
table. 

All  the  while  Zimmerman  was  adjusting  his  weapon 
so  as  to  be  able  to  fire  it  through  the  open  sash,  to  hit 
his  quarry  despite  the  uncertainties  of  the  dim  light. 
But  soon  he  was  ready,  there  was  a  click,  click,  fol- 
lowed by  a  loud  report,  and  with  a  horrible  yelp  of 
pain  the  last  "resident"  wolf  of  Sugar  Valley  rolled 
over  on  the  frozen  ground,  a  lifeless  mass. 

But  to  return  to  the  most  important  happening  in 
Green  Gap,  the  massacre  of  the  brave  boys  from  the 
Juniata  country.     It  appeared  that  in  the  last  months 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  369 

of  1  800  and  the  first  month  of  the  year  following  a 
number  of  mysterious  robberies  of  stock  were  com- 
mitted on  the  farms  of  the  settlers  residing  at  the  head- 
waters of  Cocalamus  Creek  in  the  Juniata  Valley. 
The  animals  stolen  included  horses,  milk  cows,  beeves, 
hogs  and  sheep.  A  number  of  farm  buildings,  spring 
houses,  and  straw  stacks  were  burned,  a  virtual  reign 
of  terror  ensued.  No  trace  of  the  culprits  could  be 
found.  The  victims  applied  to  the  local  authorities 
and  then  to  the  State  executives,  but  apart  from  re- 
wards being  offered  no  definite  effort  was  made  to  un- 
ravel the  strange  happenings.  But  it  was  hinted  on 
high  authority  that  the  crimes  were  those  of  persons 
living  close  at  hand,  it  was  wasting  time  to  ask  that  the 
State  Government  take  a  hand. 

"Mend  your  owti  bridges,"  was  the  gist  of  the  final 
answer. 

Angered  by  the  misconception  and  apathy  among 
those  in  the  "high  places,"  a  meeting  of  the  chief  suf- 
ferers was  held  at  the  farmstead  of  one  of  their  num- 
ber, a  brave,  high-spirited  stock  raiser  named  Captain 
Harry  Green,  formerly  of  Milton,  a  veteran  of  the 
Revolution,  whose  property  was  located  near  the  head- 
ing of  Little  Cocalamus.  Half  a  hundred  head  of 
stock  had  been  stolen,  four  barns,  six  spring  houses  and 
six  straw  stacks  burned  and  yet  not  a  single  definite 
clew  to  the  marauders.  At  the  meeting  Green  sur- 
prised his  fellow-sufferers  by  stating  that  the  robbers 
were  Indians.  Some  few  were  disposed  to  question 
this  statement,  declaring  that  all  the  roving  bands  were 


370  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

now  safely  corralled  on  the  northern  reservations,  but 
the  intrepid  pioneer  drew  from  the  pocket  of  his  buck- 
skin coat  a  moccasin  which  he  had  found  near  the 
ashes  of  his  largest  straw  stack.  He  went  on  to  relate 
that  only  five  years  before  Indians  had  made  a  raid  in 
Black  Wolf  Valley  now  called  Treaster  Valley,  in 
Mifflin  County,  driving  off  a  couple  of  dozen  head  of 
beeves,  that  they  had  been  tracked  up  to  the  fastnesses 
of  High  Valley  where  they  had  slaughtered  the  ani- 
mals and  made  good  their  escape  to  the  north,  that  the 
Indians  had  been  threatening  reprisals  for  the  white 
men's  recent  extermination  of  the  buffaloes. 

He  believed  that  the  redskins  were  camping  some- 
where in  the  mountains  south  of  the  Susquehanna,  and 
if  some  of  those  present  would  volunteer  he  would 
head  a  posse  of  regulators  to  secure  summary  redress, 
they  would  bother  the  State  no  longer.  Every  man 
present  signified  a  desire  to  join  in  the  Indian  hunt,  but 
Green  decided  to  accept  only  the  seven  unmarried  men, 
who  unanimously  elected  him  "captain."  Their  first 
intention  was  to  proceed  to  Black  Wolf  Valley,  but 
before  they  had  started  a  farmer  returning  from  Swine- 
fordstown  informed  them  that  there  was  a  rumor  of 
Indians  camping  in  a  wild  gap  that  had  its  outlet  in  the 
valley  of  Fishing  Creek,  in  the  east  end  of  Sugar  Val- 
ley, a  valley  so  named  for  the  number  of  sugar  maples 
growing  in  it. 

The  party  started,  well  armed  and  in  high  spirits. 
They  got  no  trace  of  the  Indians  until  after  they  had 
left  the  Gap,  and  came  out  in  the  above-named  valley. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  371 

Then  they  noticed  the  smoke  of  a  campfire  in  the  gap 
back  of  the  present  village  of  Carroll.  They  might 
have  surprised  and  annihilated  the  savage  band  had  it 
not  been  for  the  alertness  of  the  Indian  dogs.  The 
fleet-footed  redmen  abandoned  their  campfire  in  the 
"nick  of  time,"  at  which  a  haunch  of  venison  was  roast- 
ing, and  scurried  back  into  the  impenetrable  forests. 
The  pursuers  were  quite  a  little  surprised  not  to  find 
any  traces  of  the  missing  farm  animals.  Not  a  hoof- 
print  or  sign  of  any  kind  was  to  be  found.  But  they 
decided  to  pursue  the  marauders.  They  were  fleet- 
footed  like  the  redmen  and  several  times  were  close  at 
their  heels.  They  chased  them  over  the  rocky  coun- 
try to  the  Bald  Eagle  Ridge,  and  along  that  mountain 
to  Mill  Hall,  where  they  crossed  the  valley  to  the 
Allegheny  range,  following  those  mountains  to  the 
mouth  of  Lick  Run,  where  Farrcuidsville  now  stands. 
There  the  Indians  crossed  the  river,  and  as  the  ice  was 
going  out  and  the  northern  country  little  known  and 
treacherous,  the  pursuit  was  there  abandoned.  The 
party  then  retraced  their  way  down  the  West  Branch 
Valley. 

At  the  mouth  of  Bald  Eagle  Creek  they  met  a 
friendly  Indian,  Joe  Sunfish,  who  was  going  to  Mc- 
Elhattan  Run  to  trap  beavers.  He  said  that  he  be- 
lieved he  could  tell  of  the  mysterious  raids  in  Coca- 
lamus  Valley,  who  the  marauders  were  and  what  was 
done  with  the  plunder.  The  band  was  most  probably 
led  by  a  "bad  Indian"  named  Stiffarmed  George,  a 
Seneca,  and  their  last  camp  had  been  in  one  of  the 


372  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

gaps  opening  into  Sugar  Valley.  From  his  description 
of  the  locality,  the  pioneers  had  clearly  gotten  into  the 
wrong  gap;  they  had  been  in  Chadwick's  Gap, 
whereas  the  thieving  Indians  had  camped  and  con- 
cealed their  booty  in  the  glen  now  known  as  Green 
Gap.  That  gap  could  easily  be  located.  At  its  mouth 
stood  the  "Sentinel  Pine,"  a  tree  of  such  noticeable 
girth  and  height  that  it  far  outstripped  its  fellows. 

Stiffarmed  George  was  at  the  head  of  about  a  dozen 
savages,  he  said,  all  with  unsavory  reputations,  and 
liable  to  arrest  for  abandoning  the  reservations  without 
permission.  That  Stiffarmed  George  was  a  "bad  In- 
dian" is  borne  out  by  the  fact  that  he  died  on  the  gal- 
lows at  Buffalo,  New  York,  in  1803,  for  the  murder  of 
a  white  man.  Captain  Green  had  known  Joe  Sunfish 
for  a  long  while,  he  had  been  a  frequent  visitor  to  the 
Juniata  country  in  the  days  when  beavers  were  plenti- 
ful. Consequently  his  surmises  concerning  the  move- 
ments and  identity  of  the  outlaws  was  apt  to  be  rea- 
sonably correct.  The  regulators  therefore  continued 
their  way  down  the  valley  until  they  came  to  the  In- 
dian path,  once  the  favorite  highway  of  the  eloquent 
but  intemperate  James  Logan,  which  led  through  Mc- 
Elhattan  Gap  in  the  direction  of  Sugar  Valley. 

Before  reaching  the  sulphur  spring  where  Logan 
often  camped  while  imbibing  the  medicinal  waters  after 
a  debauch,  the  path  diverged,  one  leading  in  an  east- 
erly direction  through  Hopple  Hollow.  This  path 
Green  and  his  party  followed.  It  led  into  the  Carroll 
Gap  by  way  of  the  present  Bixel  Church,  and  at  the 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  373 

mouth  of  the  gap  a  splendid  view  across  the  valley  was 
obtained.  There  were  many  gaps  in  the  long  range 
of  mountains,  on  the  "winter  side"  of  the  valley,  Green 
Burr,  Bull  Run,  Schwenk's,  Chadwick's,  Green's,  but 
the  gap  which  they  wished  to  reach  was  the  furthest 
east.  Even  at  that  distance,  four  or  five  miles,  they 
made  out  the  black  towering,  matted  head  of  the 
"sentinel  pine."  They  could  see  where  they  had  made 
a  mistake,  Chadwick's  Gap  was  further  west  than  the 
gorge  where  the  redmen  had  their  rendezvous.  Fol- 
lowing the  Indicm  path  across  the  valley,  they  found  a 
new  and  well-marked  trail  leading  to  the  gap  in 
question. 

They  saw  the  "sentinel  pine."  What  a  noble  tree 
it  was,  the  hardy  frontiersmen  bowed  their  heads  in 
reverence  as  they  passed  it.  Such  a  tree  must  be,  as 
the  Indians  claimed,  possessed  of  consciousness,  of  soul. 
The  gap  was  a  veritable  jungle  of  giant  pines,  and 
hemlocks,  also  the  tallest  rhododendrons  they  had  ever 
seen.  Windfalls  had  made  travel  still  more  difficult. 
Snow  and  ice  further  impeded  progress.  But  the  path 
was  distinct,  it  had  been  recently  used.  However 
there  were  no  hoofprints  of  cattle  discernible.  The 
animals  were  either  still  in  the  gap  or  had  been 
butchered. 

It  was  a  half  day's  work  to  travel  the  four  miles  to 
the  head  of  the  gap  beyond  which  lay  the  waters  of 
the  South  Branch  of  White  Deer  Creek.  Near  the 
summit  the  pioneers  reached  a  large  open  space;  wind- 
falls had  downed  most  of  the  timber,  what  was  left 


374  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

was  girdled  and  dying.  In  the  center  of  the  clearing 
were  the  remains  of  Indian  campfires,  some  of  them 
with  the  embers  smouldering.  Lying  about  were  the 
skulls  and  bones  of  oxen,  hogs  and  sheep.  Evidently 
the  red  marauders  had  killed  as  much  of  their  booty 
as  possible,  selling  the  rest  perhaps  to  some  white  rene- 
gades. But  at  the  same  time  there  must  have  been 
regal  feasting  among  the  aborigines.  In  the  newly 
fallen  skiff  of  snow  was  the  spoor  of  many  panthers, 
wolves,  wildcats  and  foxes,  crossing  and  recrossing  the 
campsite.  These  scavengers  had  descended  on  the 
camp,  gorging  themselves  on  what  was  left,  after  the 
departure  of  the  Indians. 

It  made  the  regulators  angry  to  look  upon  such  a 
scene,  especially  as  they  had  to  cook  a  frugal  supper 
of  the  small  amount  of  jerked  venison  they  had  brought 
with  them.  It  was  getting  late,  too  dark  to  find  any 
tracks  of  the  horses  and  cattle  which  possibly  survived. 
It  was  bitterly  cold,  so  they  decided  to  utilize  the  In- 
dian camp  for  the  night.  It  was  as  safe  as  any  place, 
the  wolves  might  howl  from  the  mountain  sides, 
but  such  animals  never  molested  armed  men.  It  might 
have  been  well  to  leave  some  one  on  watch,  but  all 
were  tired  after  their  long  pursuit  of  Stiffarmed  George 
and  his  band.  After  supper  the  ruddy  glow  of  the 
ebbing  campfire  further  induced  sleep.  One  by  one 
the  hardy  band  wrapped  themselves  in  their  blankets 
and  passed  into  slumberland.  Captain  Green  was  the 
last  to  fall  asleep,  quiet  reigned  over  the  camp,  even 
the  wolves  were  quiet  that  frigid  February  night. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  375 

The  tired  regulators  had  slept  possibly  an  hour 
when  in  single  file  a  dozen  fierce-looking  Indians 
ascended  the  gorge,  and,  reaching  the  clearing,  sur- 
rounded the  sleeping  band.  Silently,  as  only  Indians 
can,  they  closed  in  on  the  sleepers,  and  with  their 
tomahawks  they  brained  and  scalped  the  unhappy 
men.  Not  a  single  sleeper  knew  what  had  happened 
until  he  found  himself  awake  in  the  land  of  shades. 
Then  the  Indians  stripped  the  bleeding  corpses,  gath- 
ered up  the  rifles  and  ammunition  and  as  silently  as 
they  had  come  departed  out  of  the  gap  toward  the 
vast  wildernesses  of  the  north. 

The  dead  men  were  not  left  alone  for  long,  the 
bloodthirsty  wolves  were  soon  aware  of  conditions,  and 
descending  off  the  mountain  slopes  in  files,  like  hideous 
caricatures  of  Indians,  proceeded  to  ramp  and  fighl 
over  the  mutilated  bodies.  It  was  a  wolfish  orgy  to  be 
sure,  participated  in  by  all  the  wolves  in  Sugar  Valley 
and  in  the  adjoining  regions.  Hundreds  of  the  savage 
creatures  fought  all  night  and  all  the  next  day,  and  all 
the  next  night,  until  hardly  a  recognizable  human 
vestige  remained. 

It  was  not  until  the  second  morning  after  the 
massacre  that  some  hunters  from  an  improvement  in  the 
west  of  the  valley,  two  hardy  men  named  John  Colby 
and  Samuel  Jones,  bound  for  a  red  bear  hunt  at 
Buffalo  Path,  heard  the  unseemly  racket  of  the  wolves 
in  the  lonely  gap.  Finding  an  Indian  path  they  fol- 
lowed it  to  the  head  of  the  wild  glen.  There  the  sight 
which  greeted  their  eyes  was  sickening  to  the  extremity. 


376  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

Human  skulls  and  bones  were  everywhere  on  rocks,  in 
the  spring,  wedged  between  logs,  side  by  side  with 
beeves'  skulls,  showing  the  extent  of  the  wolfish  frolic. 

At  first  they  thought  that  the  wolves  had  been  the 
aggressors,  but  when  they  picked  up  the  skulls  to  gather 
them  together  for  decent  burial,  they  saw  on  every  one 
the  telltale  mark  of  the  cruel  tomahawks.  These  same 
hunters  had  seen  Captain  Green  and  his  band  on  their 
way  to  the  north  and  the  number  of  his  party  corre- 
sponded with  the  number  of  skulls  found. 

What  was  left  was  given  a  decent  burial  that  frosty 
morning  under  a  pile  of  heavy  rocks,  where  they  would 
be  inviolate  from  wolves  or  other  desecrators.  The 
word  was  sent  to  the  authorities,  but  nothing  was  ac- 
complished; the  name  "Green  Gap"  alone  to-day  per- 
petuates the  memory  of  the  foul  deed. 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  377 


XXVI. 
THE  ROB  ROY. 

A  LEGEND  OF  OLD  mVeYTOWN. 

ALONG  the  old  canal  bank,  below  the  pictur- 
esque village  of  McVeytown,  for  a  full  century 
stood  a  certain  public  house,  a  tavern  stand  v^ith 
a  history.  Long  before  the  buildng  of  the  canal  it  had 
been  a  noted  hostelry,  a  favored  stopping  place  for 
travelers  along  the  pike,  a  headquarters  for  the  hardy 
settlers  and  hunters  of  the  neighborhood.  It  had  been 
in  the  hands  of  one  family  for  nearly  the  entire  span  of 
the  century,  a  family  of  more  than  ordinary  refinement 
and  common  sense,  w^ho  had  raised  inn  keeping  almost 
to  the  level  of  a  profession.  For  that  reason  they  at- 
tracted the  best  class  of  custom  and  many  were  the 
travelers  who  journeyed  miles  further  enduring  fatigue 
and  cold,  so  that  they  could  spend  the  night  under  this 
hospitable  roof.  And  many  were  the  travelers  who 
went  off  their  regular  roads  purposely  that  they  might 
be  entertained  there.  Even  the  roughest  customers 
from  the  Blue  Ridge  and  Jack's  Mountain  maintained 
a  respectable  demeanor  within  the  heavy  walls  of  the 
old  stone  tavern;  the  few  Indians  who  stopped  there 
recalled  that  it  had  been  built  originally  as  a  fort,  as 
was  evidenced  by  the  thickness  of  the  walls — the  en- 


378  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

tire  atmosphere  was  one  of  genial  charm.  It  reflected 
the  EngHsh  inns  of  romance  in  this  wild  mountainous 
section  of  the  new  world. 

The  family  who  kept  the  stand  were  of  English 
descent,  of  exceptionally  good  stock,  being  related  to 
the  nobility;  the  head  of  the  family  had  been  a  baro- 
net's younger  son  who  emigrated  to  Pennsylvania, 
marrying  there  a  beautiful  girl  of  lesser  rank  but  of 
solid  north  of  Ireland  forbears.  The  first  landlord  had 
married  the  eldest  daughter  of  this  union,  an  attractive 
girl,  who  maintained  her  dignity,  yet  left  no  detail  of 
her  hotel  business  neglected. 

She  was  a  favorite  with  all  travelers  especially  with 
gentlemen  travelers  from  a  distance,  who  detected  in 
her  qualities  of  mind  and  heart  of  no  mean  order. 
Often  these  fine  gentlemen  tarried  for  a  number  of 
days,  appreciating  the  home  atmosphere,  while  they 
questioned  the  regular  patrons  from  the  mountains  con- 
cerning the  tracks  and  trails  of  the  wilderness.  The 
good  name  of  the  house  was  passed  from  one  dignitary 
to  another,  for  gentlemen  always  recognize  one  another 
at  sight,  and  "go  to  the  stone  tavern,  'The  Bounding 
Elk,'  "  became  a  password  assuring  a  kindly  reception 
and  genuine  comforts  for  the  most  exacting  tourist. 

Among  the  visitors  were  many  foreigners,  princi- 
pally Scotchmen,  Ulster  Scots,  and  a  few  Englishmen, 
who  made  the  Juniata  Valley  the  veritable  Celtic  trail 
in  Pennsylvania.  For  there  they  found  most  of  the 
earliest  settlers  descended  from  their  own  stock,  and 
their  clannish  natures  found  greatest  happiness  among 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  379 

persons  of  kindred  names,  customs  and  religion.  Some 
of  these  British  travelers  were  scientists,  writers,  artists 
or  teachers,  but  there  were  numerous  "younger  sons" 
of  distinguished  parents  abroad,  who  were  hving  as 
"rolling  stones"  in  the  new  country,  traveHng  from 
place  to  place,  yet  never  finding  any  spot  attractive 
enough  to  settle  in  permanently,  no  calling  suited  to 
their  luxurious  natures.  Some  of  these  gentlemen  were 
young,  others  middle-aged,  a  few  of  them  were  quite 
old  and  proportionately  more  restless. 

It  was  in  the  early  spring  of  1  791 ,  the  year  after  the 
young  landlady's  marriage,  that  a  stranger  of  more 
than  usual  interest  ensconced  himself  at  the  stone  tav- 
ern known  as  the  Bounding  Elk.  At  first  he  had  not 
intended  to  stop,  but  struck  by  the  name,  paused  to 
inquire  its  meaning.  He  was  met  by  the  comely  young 
landlady  who  smilingly  informed  him  that  it  was 
named  for  a  famous  and  probably  mythical  elk,  which 
pursued  by  Indians  in  days  gone  by,  had  cleared  the 
Juniata  with  a  single  bound  near  where  the  tavern 
stood. 

Evidently  the  stranger  was  an  antiquary,  as  he 
seemed  greatly  pleased  with  the  information.  Dinner 
hour  being  near  at  hand,  he  turned  his  horse  over  to 
the  colored  stable  boy,  Patterson,  and  entered  the  tav- 
ern. He  was  so  well  received  by  the  stalwart  young 
landlord,  to  say  nothing  of  the  charming  better  half's 
attentions,  that  he  decided  to  remain  over  night.  Go- 
ing to  the  bam,  he  unstrapped  his  saddle  bags,  and 
proceeded  to  make  himself  at  home.      He  gave  his 


380  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

name  as  "Mr.  Campbell,"  which  caused  the  landlord 
to  inquire  if  he  were  related  to  persons  of  that  name 
residing  further  up  the  valley.  The  stranger  shook  his 
head,  saying  that  he  had  no  relatives  in  the  Confedera- 
tion, as  far  as  he  knew. 

He  seemed  to  be  quite  a  young  man,  but  it  was  hard 
to  guess  his  correct  age,  as  he  was  of  that  sandy  com- 
plexion which  so  often  defies  the  inroads  of  time.  He 
was  of  medium  height,  sturdily  built,  with  a  clear-cut 
aquiline  nose,  deep-set  Celtic  blue  eyes,  and,  though 
his  lips  were  somewhat  full,  he  always  kept  his  mouth 
tight  shut  and  compressed.  He  had  good  color,  good 
teeth,  there  was  a  slight  curl  to  his  auburn  locks.  His 
manner  was  sprightly,  yet  underneath  it  all  was  a  vein 
of  seriousness  which  expressed  itself  most  noticeably  in 
moments  of  abstraction  and  silence.  Polite,  yet  re- 
served to  all  classes  of  people,  he  hac  he  gift  of  mak- 
ing friends  easily. 

Prolonging  his  stay  at  the  Bounding  Elk  from  day 
to  day,  he  soon  became  a  fixture  about  the  premises. 
His  chief  interest  seemed  to  be  in  listenmg  to  the  Indian 
legends  of  the  mountains  which  the  ord  pioneers  loved 
to  retail  in  the  tap  room.  Occasionally  Indians  stopped 
at  the  hotel,  and  the  stranger  made  a  point  to  become 
acquainted  with  them.  He  seemed  to  possess  the 
power  of  penetrating  their  stolidity  and  reserve,  for 
they  talked  freely  of  the  grand  days  when  the  Juniata 
and  its  surrounding  regions  was  their  earthly  paradise. 

From  remarks  dropped  by  one  of  the  old  Indians, 
he  was  led,  late  in  October,  to  make  a  journey  on 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  381 

horseback  to  the  headwaters  of  Moose  Run,  a  tribu- 
tary of  Bald  Eagle  Creek,  although  previously  hardly 
a  week  had  passed  but  he  had  made  some  shorter  pil- 
grimage to  others  of  the  historic  shrines  in  the  Blue 
Ridge,  or  Fasick's  Ridge,  or  Jack's  Mountain.  But 
the  ride  across  several  ranges  of  mountains  and  valleys 
to  the  Snow  Shoe  region  was  his  longest  excursion ;  he 
was  gone  nearly  two  weeks.  At  times  the  young  land- 
lord and  his  wife  feared  that  their  visitor  might  never 
return;  he  had  come  mysteriously,  he  might  depart  in 
the  same  manner.  But  when  almost  given  up  as  lost, 
he  rode  up  unconcernedly,  his  face  beaming  with  evi- 
dent pleasure  and  satisfaction.  He  had  been  in  a 
fierce  snowstorm,  had  almost  perished  in  the  impene- 
trable forest  one  cold  windy  night,  but  when  that  was 
passed  and  gone,  he  could  only  say  that  the  trip  had 
been  well  worth  the  effort. 

The  night  of  his  return  the  stone  tavern  bid  fair  to 
re-establish  its  claim  to  the  name  of  the  "Bounding 
Elk."  Just  before  supper  time  a  loud  barking  of  dogs 
was  heard  a  short  distance  down  the  river.  A  gigantic 
bull  moose,  on  his  southerly  migration,  had  been  driven 
into  the  water  by  a  nondescript  pack  of  hounds,  which 
were  yelping  and  leaping  about  his  huge,  swart  form. 
With  his  massive  palmated  antlers  he  defended  him- 
self as  best  he  could  until,  stepping  into  a  deep  hole,  he 
was  almost  swept  off  his  feet  by  the  current.  Just  at 
this  moment  the  landlord,  a  couple  of  old  hunters,  and 
the  stable  boy  arrived  on  the  scene  armed  with  flint- 
locks. The  appearance  of  the  Nimrods  spurred  the  des- 


382  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

perate  moose  to  greater  efforts,  and  he  managed  to 
reach  the  south  shore  at  a  spot  where  the  bank  was 
level,  and  with  a  mighty  plunge  took  harbor  in  the 
forest.  Dogs  and  men  were  after  him,  they  could  not 
allow  such  a  superb  quarry  to  escape. 

Black  moose  were  practically  extinct  at  that  time, 
although  the  grey  moose  or  elk  were  still  fairly  numer- 
ous in  Jack's  Mountain  and  in  the  Seven  Brothers. 
The  disappearance  of  the  hunters  on  what  might  be 
an  all-night's  chase  left  the  stranger  and  the  young 
landlady  alone  in  the  tavern.  Had  he  not  just  re- 
turned from  a  long  horseback  journey  he  might  have 
accompanied  them,  but  as  it  was  he  preferred  to  enjoy 
a  quiet  supper  with  his  hostess. 

That  night  blew  up  bitterly  cold,  the  winds,  "in 
their  weary  play,"  hurled  themselves  against  the  gables 
and  roof  with  a  ghostly  woo,  woo,  woo.  All  Souls' 
night  was  past,  else  the  winds  might  have  been  mis- 
taken for  the  outcries  of  angry  spirits.  After  supper 
the  young  couple  sat  before  the  huge  open  fireplace, 
watching  the  sparks  from  the  great  back  log  fly  up  the 
chimney,  and  listening  to  the  unhappy  wind.  The 
stranger  was  stroking  a  large  black  cat,  his  favorite  ani- 
mal, which  climbed  on  his  lap  and  shoulders,  arching 
its  back  and  purring  affectionately.  After  a  while, 
when  the  man  and  girl  felt  in  harmony  with  one  an- 
other, the  stranger's  reserve  vanished,  he  began  talking 
about  his  trip,  of  the  legends  he  had  heard  while  in  the 
high  mountains. 

Several  weeks  before  an  Indian  named  Nicodemus 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  383 

had  begged  a  meal  at  the  tavern.  He  said  that  he  was 
over  a  hundred  years  old,  and  he  certainly  looked  it. 
He  claimed  to  have  been  one  of  the  Pequot  Indians 
converted  by  the  Moravians  at  Shekomeko,  in 
Dutchess  County,  New  York,  who  followed  the  mis- 
sionaries into  Pennsylvania  after  their  persecutions  at 
the  hands  of  the  New  Yorkers.  This  Indian  told  of 
his  accompanying  the  missionary  Ettwein  on  his  jour- 
ney to  the  Ohio  in  1  772,  and  how  they  had  camped 
for  several  days  at  Snow  Shoe  on  the  backbone  of  the 
Alleghenies.  While  there  another  Pequot  named 
Nathan,  a  member  of  the  party,  fell  in  love  with  Paa- 
lochquen,  a  Shawnee  maid  of  rare  beauty,  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  hunter  of  that  tribe  camped  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. His  ardor  was  reciprocated,  and  Ettwein  was 
preparing  to  baptize  the  beautiful  girl  when  the  Pequot 
lover  fell  ill.  Though  he  had  everything  to  live  for,  the 
unfortunate  Indian  died  in  a  few  days  and  was  buried 
at  the  foot  of  a  giant  mountain,  the  spot  ever  after  be- 
ing known  as  Indian  Grave  Hill.  Ettwein  had  uttered 
a  prayer  at  the  grave  and  carved  the  deceased's  name 
on  a  nearby  beech  tree.  The  bereaved  maiden  was 
inconsolable,  and  sat  by  the  grave  grieving  in  silence. 
Vainly  did  her  father  try  to  make  her  return  to  his 
camp  at  the  head  of  the  stream  whose  name  commemo- 
rated one  of  his  great  kills  in  the  hunting  field,  Moose 
Run,  but  the  girl  was  obdurate.  Sorrow  drove  her  out 
of  her  mind,  she  forgot  all  else  except  the  loss  of  her 
lover.  Her  equally  grief-stricken  relatives  brought  her 
food  and  drink,  but  she  fasted  until  the  next  phase  of 


384  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

the  moon,  when  she  recovered  her  reason.  But  she  re- 
fused to  return  to  Moose  Run.  Life  never  again  could 
flow  in  its  old  channels,  she  said. 

Her  father  moved  to  another  hunting  ground  across 
the  ridge  where  she  consented  to  go.  When  the  moon 
took  on  the  demi-lune  the  girl  was  out  of  her  mind 
again.  She  fasted  and  went  without  sleep,  claiming 
that  she  saw  and  was  with  her  beloved  Nathan.  In 
time  she  became  known  as  the  Half  Moon  Maid,  and 
the  camping  ground  later  was  called  Half  Moon  Lick. 
For  over  a  century  afterward  it  was  a  famous  locality 
for  deer. 

The  stranger  was  seized  with  a  desire  to  meet  the 
Half  Moon  Maid  and  perhaps  she  could  answer  a 
riddle  which  was  tearing  at  his  heart.  So  he  had  jour- 
neyed into  the  wilderness  and  met  the  unhappy  woman, 
now  middle-aged  and  minus  her  former  beauty.  But 
she  had  promised  to  put  him  in  touch  with  some  one 
across  the  seas,  some  one  whom  he  had  not  heard  from 
for  several  weary  years.  He  had  come  back  from  the 
high  mountains  jubilant,  like  one  reborn ;  he  was  to  re- 
ceive more  than  a  wireless  message  can  give  to-day,  a 
sight  of  and  an  interview  with  his  sweetheart. 

But  before  going  on  further  with  his  story  the 
stranger  revealed  his  identity.  His  name,  Campbell, 
had  been  assumed  by  his  grandfather  in  Scotland,  who 
was  none  other  than  the  famous  outlaw  Rob  Roy.  His 
father,  James  MacGregor  Campbell,  had  escaped 
from  Edinburgh  Castle,  where  he  had  been  imprisoned 
after  the  Bfittb  pf  Prestonpans,  to  France,  c^nd  there 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  385 

the  younger  James  Campbell  was  born.  His  life  had 
run  smoothly  enough  except  for  several  military  experi- 
ences, until  when  on  a  visit  to  Florence,  in  northern 
Italy,  he  noticed  one  afternoon,  when  walking  along 
the  Arno,  much  as  Dante  had  observed  the  immortal 
Beatrice,  the  beautiful  Countess  Angiere  Agnes 
Garhardini. 

This  young  noblewoman  was  an  orphan  of  Italian, 
English  and  German  blood  and  heiress  to  considerable 
property.  Though  she  spent  most  of  her  time  with 
Italian  relatives,  her  guardian  was  a  Bavarian,  a  Baron 
Linderum,  who  had  served  with  her  father  under  Mar- 
shal Saxe  at  Fontenoy,  both  being  youthful  cavalry 
officers  in  their  teens  at  the  time  of  the  memorable 
battle. 

The  appearance  of  the  young  countess  made  an  im- 
pression on  young  Campbell's  sensitive  soul,  a  soul  like 
Byron's  that  was  always  "wax  to  receive,  marble  to 
retain,"  that  time  could  not  lessen  or  separation  efface. 
The  oval  face,  with  its  retrousse  nose  and  full  lips,  the 
blue  eyes,  the  pale  hair,  crispy,  like  spun  sugar,  the 
slender  form,  all  to  him  made  a  picture  of  exquisite 
loveliness.  As  it  was  a  case  of  iove  at  first  sight  with 
the  youth,  it  was  equally  so  with  the  girl,  and  she 
leaned  against  the  parapet  gazing  after  him  as  he 
strolled  along  toward  the  Cascine  Park.  So  strong 
was  the  impression  that  the  young  lover  could  have  no 
peace  until  presented  to  his  charmer.  As  acquaint- 
ances, both  found  themselves  most  congenial,  the  words 
of  love  were  soon  spoken  and  on  both  sides.     Then 


386  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

came  the  breaking  of  the  news  to  the  guardian,  whose 
rage  knew  no  bounds.  He  had  other  plans  for  the  fair 
girl's  future,  he  made  it  known.  The  lover  was  warned 
away,  to  go  out  into  the  big  world  and  win  a  name  for 
himself.  If  successful,  he  might  come  back  and  again 
pay  his  addresses,  if  by  that  time  the  girl  had  not  mar- 
ried some  one  else. 

Not  having  a  regular  occupation,  not  even  a  com- 
mission at  that  moment,  with  his  father  a  penniless 
exile,  beset  with  enemies,  there  was  nothing  to  do  but 
to  turn  away  with  a  heavy  heart,  to  seek  surcease  in 
some  other  part  of  the  world.  The  social  position  of 
Countess  Angiere  Agnes  made  her  too  conspicuous  a 
personage  to  figure  in  an  elopement ;  at  any  rate  she  did 
not  enthuse  over  such  a  proposition,  though  he  made 
it  to  her.  Therefore  alone  and  sunk  deep  in  hopeless- 
ness, the  young  man  made  his  way  to  America.  There 
he  saw  many  opportunities  to  prosper,  but  his  soul  was 
filled  with  such  a  great  unrest  and  emptiness  that  he 
could  not  concentrate  his  mind  on  any  given  task.  He 
had  been  a  wanderer,  filled  with  many  vague  hopes 
and  wild  fancies  until  he  found  his  ultimate  islands  in 
the  hospitable  walls  of  the  Bounding  Elk. 

The  beautiful  Angiere  Agnes  had  promised  to  write 
to  him  regularly  in  America  and  he  gave  her  the  ad- 
dresses of  family  friends  in  Philadelphia  who  would 
forward  his  mail  to  wherever  he  might  be.  He  wrote 
her  every  day  until  he  reached  the  ship,  every  day  on 
shipboard,  and  daily  for  weeks  after  his  arrival  in  the 
Quaker  City.     When  the  time  eagerly  watched  for 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  387 

had  rolled  around  and  he  might  expect  letters  from  his 
beloved  he  was  cast  into  the  depths  of  despondency  by 
the  non-arrival  of  a  single  line,  directly  or  indirectly. 
Though  he  kept  on  writing  letters  at  intervals  of  every 
week  or  two  for  a  period  of  over  four  years,  silence 
was  profound  as  far  as  Angiere  Agnes  was  concerned. 
Though  he  could  not  understand  the  girl's  instability 
after  so  many  protestations  of  love,  he  kept  his  faith 
through  it  all — he  never  even  looked  at  any  other 
woman. 

His  first  ray  of  real  hope  came  when  old  Paaloch- 
quen,  the  erstwhile  "Half  Moon  Maid,"  told  him  to 
return  to  the  Bounding  Elk  and  learn  the  true  state  of 
affairs.  He  hoped  that  this  glimpse  into  the  world  of 
his  dreams  would  set  his  soul's  house  in  order,  so  that 
he  might  find  his  place  in  the  world  and  cease  the  fool- 
ish career  of  "rolling  stone"  or  dilettante.  He  felt 
firmly  convinced  that  Ajigiere  Agnes  loved  him,  that 
there  was  some  cause  for  her  silence,  but  it  would  have 
been  useless  to  return  to  Europe  before  she  came  of 
age,  which  event  had  happened  in  the  previous  De- 
cember. 

As  he  was  speaking  these  final  words  of  faith  the 
great  clock  in  the  corner  of  the  room  began  striking 
twelve,  the  sleeping  black  cat  on  his  lap  raised  its  head 
and  curved  its  back,  as  such  grimalkins  always  do  at 
the  signal  of  the  witching  hour.  When  the  last  stroke 
had  sounded,  the  young  man  put  the  cat  down  gently, 
and  rising  from  the  settle,  bade  his  hostess  good-night. 
Lighting  his  rushlight,  he  passed  out  into  the  dark  cold 


388  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

hall,  to  ascend  the  broad  staircase  to  his  room,  a  sad 
and  solitary  figure. 

After  he  had  gone  the  landlady,  the  fair  Dorcas,  sat 
by  the  fire  meditating.  Surely  this  youth,  whom  she 
ever  afterwards  called  "The  Rob  Roy,"  was  different 
from  any  man  she  had  ever  met  before;  his  love  story 
above  all  others  had  its  pathos,  his  hopes  for  the  future 
she  prayed  might  be  realized.  There  was  something 
heroic  about  him  that  won  her  admiration.  And  as  the 
fire  burned  low  she  fell  asleep  with  the  cat  on  her  lap. 

When  she  awoke  she  saw  her  husband,  the  two  old 
hunters  and  Patterson,  the  stable  boy,  standing  by  her. 
1  he  fire  was  low,  the  room  frigid.  A  few  rays  of  pink 
dawn  were  coming  through  the  shuttered  windows. 
The  men  were  exultant.  They  had  killed  the  moose, 
its  mammoth  antlers  lay  on  the  floor,  the  dogs  were 
licking  the  blood  off  the  section  of  skull  to  which  they 
were  affixed.  It  took  the  sleepy  woman  several  min- 
utes to  fully  grip  her  consciousness,  but  when  she  did 
she  congratulated  the  Nimrods  on  bringing  down  the 
monarch  of  the  forest.  Then  she  asked  after  young 
Campbell  the  Rob  Roy.  Patterson,  the  stable  boy, 
spoke  up  saying  that  he  had  met  him  going  out  of  the 
house  as  they  were  coming  in.  He  had  asked  him  to 
go  back  to  the  stable  and  saddle  his  horse  for  him — 
he  must  hurry  there  now. 

Anxiously  Dorcas  inquired  where  Campbell  was 
going.  The  boy  could  not  tell,  except  that  he  was 
carrying  the  saddle-bags  with  him,  which  seemed  to 
indicate  a  long  journey.     Suddenly  losing  interest  in 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  389 

the  hunters  grouped  about  the  remains  of  the  bull 
moose,  the  young  womem  ran  out  to  the  stable  yard. 
No  horse  was  to  be  seen.  In  the  bam  the  Rob  Roy's 
mount  was  not  in  its  box.  The  young  man  had  de- 
parted without  revealing  if  he  had  had  his  peep  across 
the  seas,  and  if  his  faith  had  proved  true.  And  the 
fair  Dorcas  hung  her  head,  as  if  slighted. 

At  that  moment  the  Rob  Roy  was  riding  to  the 
East  as  fast  as  his  horse  could  travel  over  the  frosty 
roads.  With  blind  purpose  he  urged  the  faithful  ani- 
mal on  until  he  reached  Philadelphia,  where  he  put  up 
at  an  inn  on  the  water  front.  While  in  the  city  he  met 
several  friends  to  whom  he  imparted  the  information 
of  his  intended  return  to  France.  To  all  of  these 
friends  he  said  he  was  rejoining  the  army,  that  war  was 
brewing,  but  in  a  letter  posted  to  Dorcas  on  the  eve  of 
departure  at  sea  he  confided  his  real  reason  for  the 
journey,  a  strange  happening  past  midnight  in  his  room 
at  the  Bounding  Elk. 

The  letter  recited  that  after  he  left  his  landlady  at 
the  inglenook,  he  repaired  to  his  room,  lighting  the  way 
with  the  single  rushlight.  As  he  opened  the  door,  by 
the  rich,  flickering  light,  he  saw  his  beloved  Angiere 
Agnes  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  Her  face 
was  ghastly  pale,  of  a  greenish  hue;  she  held  her  left 
hand,  the  long  fingers  greenish  white,  over  her  heart, 
and  spread  beneath  her  hand  was  a  sheet  of  letter 
paper.  As  the  surprised  lover  advanced  toward  her 
she  extended  her  hand  to  him,  giving  him  the  scrap  of 
paper.     As  she  moved  her  arm  away  from  her  breast 


390  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

he  could  see  a  gaping  hole  in  the  black  silk  bodice,  and 
something  that  looked  like  black  clotted  blood.  And 
as  he  took  the  paper  in  his  hand,  which  was  in  the  form 
of  an  old-time  letter  with  cracked  red  seals,  there  was 
a  ragged  hole  in  the  center  of  it,  the  edges  of  which 
were  much  powder  marked. 

The  young  man's  lips  moved  as  if  to  speak,  but  he 
checked  himself,  knowing  that  it  was  dangerous  to  ad- 
dress a  ghost — the  phantom  was  certain  to  fade  away 
— so  he  waited  for  the  shadow  of  what  was  once  the 
fair  Angiere  Agnes  to  speak.  He  could  see  her  full 
lips  twitch  and  curve,  with  the  movement  of  cold  clay, 
before  the  familiar  tones  were  heard.  The  story  which 
she  related  chilled  his  heart  and  made  him  bite  his  lips 
in  rage. 

It  seemed  that  when  he  had  gone  away  to  seek  his 
fortune  in  the  New  World  she  had  resolved  to  be  true 
to  him,  she  had  written  him  every  day  and  expected  to 
hear  from  him  in  return.  But  no  answers  came  to  her 
letters.  The  long  silence  almost  broke  her  heart.  She 
questioned  her  guardian,  but  he  could  tell  her  nothing. 
In  her  desperation  she  wrote  to  a  man  of  prominence 
in  Philadelphia,  one  of  her  guardian's  friends,  asking 
about  the  absent  lover,  whether  he  was  alive  or  dead. 

Meanwhile  the  old  baron  approached  her  with  a 
proposal  of  marriage,  which  she  indignantly  refused. 
The  elderly  guardian  did  not  seem  rebuffed,  but  passed 
the  episode  over,  apparently  continuing  to  be  as  polite 
and  considerate  as  if  nothing  of  a  serious  nature  had 
happened.     One  evening,  she  was  at  the  baron's  castle 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  391 

in  Munich  at  the  time,  the  old  man  asked  her  to  accom- 
pany him  to  a  reception  at  the  royal  armory  or  "Rust 
Kammer,"  where  some  distinguished  savants  from  Eng- 
land and  Spain,  including  a  noble  writer  on  armor, 
were  to  be  entertained. 

While  dressing  for  the  occasion  a  letter  covered  with 
seals  and  postmarks  was  handed  to  her.  Breaking  it 
open  she  saw  that  it  was  headed  "Philadelphia,  April 
27,  1  791 ."  But,  alas,  it  was  not  in  her  lover's  hand- 
writing, but  from  the  prominent  Quaker  whom  her 
guardian  knew.  Breathlessly  she  read  it;  it  contained 
bad  news.  James  Campbell,  it  said,  had  been  married 
over  two  years  to  an  estimable  young  lady  of  Phila- 
delphia, giving  her  name,  and  was  living  with  her  in 
excellent  style  within  a  few  squares  of  the  residence  of 
the  writer  of  the  letter.  In  her  grief  Angiere  Agnes 
almost  fell  to  the  floor.  As  it  was  she  reeled,  and  had 
to  be  supported  by  her  maidservants.  But  though  full 
of  tenderness  and  sentiment,  she  was  of  proud  nature 
and  resolved  to  conceal  the  tragedy  from  all,  especially 
from  her  guardian.  So  she  finished  her  simple  toilette, 
dined  with  the  old  nobleman  in  his  state  dining-hall, 
laughing  gaily  as  though  nothing  had  happened,  yet 
when  she  looked  in  the  long  mirror  opposite  to  where 
she  sat  she  could  see  that  she  was  deadly  pale. 

After  the  repast  she  drove  with  the  baron  to  the 
armory,  and  was  soon  in  the  midst  of  the  large  assem- 
blage, which  embraced  all  the  nobility,  as  well  as  the 
intellectuals  of  the  city  and  vicinity.  The  armory  was 
a  quaint  old  place,  with  stone  floor  and  stone  gothic 


392  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

arches,  and  after  paying  their  respects  to  the  distin- 
guished guests  the  old  soldier  desired  to  show  his  fair 
ward  the  wonders  of  the  collection. 

In  the  "saals"  of  this  armory  were  contained  many 
antique  treasures,  such  as  figures  of  men-at-arms  in 
harness  of  plate  or  mail,  and  weaponed  with  swords, 
partizans  or  iron-studded  clubs,  and  shields  emblazoned 
with  armorial  bearings.  Around  these  were  ranged, 
in  various  trophies,  banners,  lances,  pikes,  halberds, 
morning-stars,  and  iron-mounted  flails,  herald's  batons, 
gilt  tournament  lances  and  every  species  of  firearm, 
match-locks,  wheel-locks,  snap-huhns,  dogs,  pistolettes, 
and  hagbuts  with  their  rests.  On  the  walls  were  dis- 
played morions,  skulls,  swords,  battle-axes,  back- 
plates  and  breast-plates,  touch-boxes  and  bullet  moulds, 
cross-bows,  kettle-drums,  pitch-rings,  and  chevaux-de- 
frize;  and  on  the  floor  were  ranged  small  pieces  of 
artillery  with  their  balls,  including  demi-falcons  or  long 
long  slender  cannon,  one  with  the  date  1 608  on  it. 

All  of  this  was  highly  edifying  to  a  lover  of  military 
science,  and  the  old  veteran  feasted  his  eyes  on  these 
relics  of  his  art  of  war  as  if  they  were  so  many  beau- 
tiful women.  At  the  sides  of  the  vast  central  chamber 
were  numerous  chapels  or  alcoves,  faintly  lit  by  tapers. 

While  the  old  soldier  stopped  to  converse  with  a 
fellow-veteran  of  Saxe's  Wars,  Angiere  Agnes  slipped 
unnoticed  into  one  of  these  shadowy  recesses.  On  a 
table,  uncovered,  lay  a  number  of  pistols  of  cumber- 
some and  antique  design.  Picking  up  one  after  an- 
other she  primed  them  until  she  found  one  that  was 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  393 

loaded:  some  armorer  must  have  been  experimenting 
with  it.  It  would  be  a  risky  thing  to  do,  as  the  old 
weapon  might  explode,  but  she  determined  to  end  her 
sorrow  then  and  there. 

Laying  the  letter  from  Philadelphia,  the  death  knell 
of  all  her  hopes,  over  her  heart,  she  placed  the  pistol 
against  it  and  pulled  the  clumsy  rusty  trigger.  There 
was  a  sickening  report,  a  lot  of  foul  smoke,  a  crash  on 
the  stone  floor,  and  all  was  over.  Baron  Linderum 
heard  the  shot,  and  with  his  aged  friend,  ran  forward. 
When  they  reached  the  dim  chapel  Angiere  Agnes, 
Countess  Garliardini,  was  beyond  all  mortal  aid. 

The  armorers  swept  away  the  collection  of  ancient 
pistols,  and  gently  placed  the  body  on  the  antique 
table,  where  it  made  an  admirable  bier  for  the  lovely 
corpse.  When  the  baron  had  first  rushed  to  the  spot 
he  had  seen  the  shot-torn  letter  lying  over  the  girl's 
heart;  he  had  divined  the  meaning.  It  is  well  that  his 
thoughts  are  unrecorded.  When  he  viewed  the  body 
lying  on  the  table,  with  the  long  white  hands  folded 
across  the  lacerated  breast,  the  letter  was  gone.  He 
charged  the  armorers  with  concealing  it,  but  could  get 
no  satisfaction  from  them. 

All  that  was  mortal  of  his  still-bom  romance  was 
laid  to  rest  in  the  family  vault  of  his  schloss,  and  he  re- 
tired to  a  life  of  solitude  until  he  might  be  placed  in 
death  by  her  side,  amid  ancestors  reaching  back  in  un- 
broken line  almost  a  thousand  years. 

Wbere  the  soul  goes  after  release  Angiere  Agnes 
could  not  tell,  where  the  damning  letter  was  wafted  to 


394  JUNIATA    MEMORIES 

she  was  still  less  able  to  know,  but  at  any  rate  she  held 
it  over  her  broken  heart  when  she  greeted  her  lover  in 
his  desolate  room  at  the  Bounding  Elk  by  the  beautiful 
Juniata.  And  to  prove  that  he  was  not  dreaming,  but 
that  he  really  saw  her,  she  handed  it  to  him,  her  white 
finger  marks  brushing  away  some  of  the  powder  stains. 

And  then  she  was  gone — to  the  unknown  land  that 
she,  nor  no  other  dweller  in  it,  can  ever  describe,  that 
nether  world  which  is  not  spiritual,  not  material,  the 
no  man's  land  which  is  all  we  know  of  the  universe  we 
cannot  see,  that  universe  that  is  material  enough  to 
retain  a  scrap  of  paper  for  four  or  five  sad  years.  Yet 
we  know  that  is  a  land  far  from  Nirvana  or  Valhalla. 

How  long  after  she  had  vanished  Campbell  kept 
standing  there  clutching  the  bullet-rent  paper  he  did  not 
know,  except  that  when  he  heard  the  voices  of  the  re- 
turning moose  hunters  and  the  barking  of  the  dogs  be- 
low he  folded  the  letter  and  put  it  in  his  pocket  above 
his  heart,  and  slipping  quietly  down  the  stairs — he 
wanted  to  see  nobody,  speak  to  nobody,  be  alone  with 
his  soul — he  hurried  outdoors  to  the  stable. 

And  a  few  days  after  he  wrote  the  story  to  Dorcas, 
as  if  she  were  his  one  real  friend,  "The  Rob  Roy"  was 
sailing  down  the  Delaware  toward  the  East,  where  his 
hopes  had  risen  like  the  sun,  away  from  the  West, 
where  they  had  gone  down  in  a  sunset  of  exquisite 
beauty  and  profound  sadness, 


JUNIATA    MEMORIES  395 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 
OF  HENRY  W.  SHOEMAKER. 

Immaterial  Verses,   1898  (Verse). 

Random  Thoughts,   1899   (Verse). 

Wild  Life  in  Central  Pennsylvania,   1903. 

Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories,   1907. 

Pennsylvania  Mountain  Verses,   1907. 

More  Pennsylvania  Mountain  Stories,   1912. 

Story  of  the  Sulphur  Spring,  1912. 

The  Indian  Steps,   1912. 

Tales  of  the  Bald  Eagle  Mountains,   1912. 

Elizabethan  Days,   1912   (Verse). 

Susquehanna  Legends,    1913. 

Stories  of  Pennsylvania  Animals,   1913. 

Stories  of  Great  Pennsylvania  Hunters,   1913. 

In  the  Seven  Mountains,  1914. 

The  Pennsylvania  Lion,   1914. 

Wolf  Days  in  Pennsylvania,   1914. 

Black  Forest  Souvenirs,  1914. 

A  Week  in  the  Blue  Mountains,  1914. 

Penns  Grandest  Cavern,   1915. 

Pennsylvania  Deer  and  Their  Horns,   1915. 

A  Pennsylvania  Bison  Hunt,   1915. 

Captain  Logan,  1915. 

The  Last  of  the  War  Governors,  1916. 

Juniata  Memories,   1916. 

Pennsylvania  Wildcats,  1916. 

Eldorado  Found,  1916. 

Extinct  Pennsylvania  Animals,  Part  I,   1916. 

Early  Potters  of  Clinton  County,  1916. 

Philosophy  of  Jake  Haiden,   1911    (Editor). 


5^ 

l1    065" 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


tW 


?.ET" 


Series  9482 


3   1205  00428  9987 

'I 


-^ 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACIUri' 


AA    000  879  618    7 


iiiiiitif''>i;!il 


mm 


